


No Fury

by Telyn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Dream Sequences Galore, Extended Metaphors, First Kiss, First plenty of things, Fluff and Angst, I Love Bedelia, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Pretentious, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telyn/pseuds/Telyn
Summary: Then, to his dismay, Bedelia laughed. It was an unsettling sound, a cymbal crash. It was mirthless graveyard laughter. 
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Hannibal Lecter, it’s that he will survive. And, if he is to survive, he will be sure you do, too.” The laughter at the edges of her words had faded, but he could still feel the ripples of it. “You need a plan. He will certainly have one.”
******Hannibal and Will survived the fall, with a little help. Can they now survive each other? Can they survive the ones hunting them?
Half flashback to immediately after the fall; half story line involving slightly more established Hannigram.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_2 days before the Fall_

He’d be savoring the memory of her face in the days to come, the way you could still taste a good meal by licking your lips. It was sweeter even than anticipated, watching her ever-composed façade crack open and the fear beneath drizzle out. Her hands trembled, her body suddenly stiff.

“You righteous, reckless, twitchy little man. Might as well cut all of our throats and be done with it.”

There was no hint of twitch about him now. “Ready or not, here he comes.”

He turned to leave, tucking every shadow and line of the moment into the nearest closet of his memory palace. Before he made it through the door, however, she was behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Her touch shook, and at first he thought she might strike him: in fact, he half-hoped she would. He wanted to see her rattled, and, in some barely-acknowledged corner of this mind, he wanted an excuse to pinion her wrists and feel her pulse hammering under his grip in fear.

But she did not strike out. Not with her hands, anyway.

“What do you imagine happening next, Mr. Graham?” Her voice gave him pause. It was almost…

He didn’t want to associate the word with her, but he couldn’t deny it. Vulnerable.

_I want to help it._ Cursing himself for it, he turned back.

“You know what he is behind the veil. What you will become. When I—“

She stopped herself, the sudden pause filled only with filtered sun and the faint scent of liquor. He watched her search his face and was reminded of knocking gently on the wall—a methodical line until a single rap was answered by a thud. _Bingo._

 “Is this a declaration of love, Mr. Graham? Or a farewell?”

The question was not venomous, but it stung. He hated her for asking, and he hated himself for allowing the sweetness of the moment to dull on his tongue.

“Or haven’t you decided yet?”

“I don’t know if either of us will survive long enough to find out what _this_ is.”

Then, to his dismay, she laughed. It was an unsettling sound, a cymbal crash. It was mirthless graveyard laughter.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Hannibal Lecter, it’s that he _will_ survive. And, if he is to survive, he will be sure you do, too.” The laughter at the edges of her words had faded, but he could still feel the ripples of it. “You need a plan. He will certainly have one.”

 “ _You_ had a plan.”

Her only response was a slow, thoughtful sip of bourbon.

He had often wondered what her time with Hannibal had been, the devil’s honeymoon they had shared. A glamorous affair, no doubt. The two of them would have struck impressive figures in the midst of Florence, accented by stucco and marble and all things fine and refined. But in the privacy of their dyad, where glamor was no more than a flimsy backdrop for their minds, what had she seen? Felt? How had she survived all of him intact? Not just intact, but whole—a porcelain vase untouched by a mighty earthquake.

Will had seen Hannibal made harmless only twice. Once by Alana Bloom and a promise extracted to gain his freedom. Bedelia was the second; what manner of charm she had used remained a mystery. He always imagined her as a sort of snake charmer, lulling, stroking, soothing, but, in the end, ever ready to use her machete if the beast would not retreat to his basket.

Either way, the stay of execution had an expiration date for both women. And he knew precisely what freeing Hannibal meant to them.

For a long moment, she watched him, weighing him on the scales she seemed to balance across the fulcrum of her mind. She saw and understood him more clearly than most--and she certainly understood Hannibal more than most. In some ways, perhaps, more than he.

 “You should go with him—if you get the chance.” She tilted the last few drops of her drink down her throat, clear glass shattering and mending the light as she lifted it.

“Just a moment ago you were full of Faustian fears about loosing the Devil. Why the change of heart, Bedelia? Feeling sentimental?”

“Every zealot should have his pilgrimage _._ ” Her eyes had become ever-so-slightly unfocused and in them he spotted the beginnings of regret.  “Just take it far from here, in some sacred space where you may offer up your prayers to one another. But for your own sake, have a plan—in case that sacred space turns out to be Hell.”

“Can’t live with him, can’t live without him.” It was no longer a question: it was merely the fact of their grudgingly-shared experience.

The smile she gave him was almost fond. “’The Devil he is old; grow old yourself and he’ll make sense.’” She lifted her empty glass as if in tribute. Then, for the first time since she had appeared outside his cell at the hospital, she leaned in close. The tang of bourbon and fear mingled with her perfume was cloying.

“Just remember. It will be different— _he_ will be different—than you imagine.” She sighed as she opened the door, shakily. “And so will you.”

_*******************************_

 

_Four hours after the fall_

The teacup fell, air whistling past, the sharp sea-salt battering, bludgeoning, breaking. It was as it should be. The shards scattered wide, lost to the sea.

The waves thundered, the birds cried, and the world wheeled on.

And then slowly, in shaky, irregular fragments, they began to gather themselves up. He didn’t know how. He had only a vague sense of it happening at all.  A piece here, a piece there. The ghost of a face or an ache or a sting. A puff of air, a whiff of gun powder.

The feeling of his hand wrapped in Hannibal’s hair as they were drawn from the sea.

The high, unmistakable drone of machines. Fingers that were not his on wounds he barely remembered.

But the first true memory he had was of her. Her face—her perfect damned face—silhouetted in curtained daylight.

His consciousness was heavy, and he fought from beneath a lodestone of drugs to see. To speak.

“Relax, Mr. Graham. You’re in absolutely no shape to be moving.” Her hand was on his chest, but he didn’t feel it. He tested his own hands tentatively. They did not move. Paralysis or bondage, he couldn’t be sure.

“Be-delia.” A groaning voice from beside him. “Mia signora.”

The hint of a smile. “Mio mostro.”

Will tried to turn his head to see Hannibal, but his neck was no longer under his control.  From the hoarse, uneven lilt of his voice, he knew Hannibal must be struggling through the same drug-induced stupor as he. In fact, just as Bedelia spoke again, he felt himself falling back beneath a blanket of unfocused peace.

A sting from somewhere below. Refocusing, Bedelia held a syringe. “Not just yet, Mr. Graham. I need both of you for this.”

He heard Hannibal chuckle, dry and barely formed. “A witness.”

There was a tenderness in her face as she looked at him--a warmth he felt sure she would have guarded well had they not both been half-insentient. “Hannibal—you’ve been shot.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“You and Mr. Graham have also broken, bruised, or sprained almost every muscle and bone in your bodies.” Beneath the cool, clinical assessment, Will detected a thin trace of amusement. “I have given you both paralytics to keep you immobile and sedatives to keep you calm while I fully catalog and repair the damage—as much as I can.”

“An angel of mercy?” he groaned, almost collecting enough pieces of himself to truly loathe her. His face burned.

“Mercy does not enter into it,” Hannibal said, with forced alertness. “It’s a promise she’s after. Do you truly think I will return your life to you, Bed--”

Hannibal was wracked with a fit of coughing, and, suddenly there was a horrible, wet gurgle. Will could do nothing but watch her watch him. Her eyes sparked, taking a moment to observe his pain, before she leaned forward, gently. Unable to turn, her actions were hidden, but after a short time, he heard the rough sounds of breath begin again.

“As you can see, you are in need of immediate medical attention, Hannibal,” Bedelia continued, sitting up and back in view, perfectly poised. “And it is my intention to render that aid. If, that is….”

The chuckle this time was not dry but wet, and Will was suddenly aware of the scent of blood. “If I promise not to kill you?”

“Just so.”

He was laughing in earnest now, and clearly hurting for it, each laugh strangled. “You would do better to kill me and be done with it.”

“Is that what you want, mio caro?” she whispered, stroking his face. She blinked with intention, and Will knew what was coming next. “I’m afraid I’ve sworn to do no harm. I might feel honor-bound to call an ambulance. Let them find you here, put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Back in your tank, the glass ever between you...”

Hannibal was silent, save for shuddering breaths.

“Of course it’s not only your choice. You’ve dragged Mr. Graham along with you. Or did he drag you?”

Will remembered back, through the haze, through the distant events that had preceded the fall, to the moment he had told her he was setting Hannibal free: the look of almost-concealed rage and fear he had relished. He knew, without looking, that she was savoring the same look on Hannibal’s face now—a crack of fear barely visible to anyone else.

“How did you find us, Bedelia?” Hannibal was fading, every syllable more distant.

“I assure you, we don’t have time for that particular tête-à-tête.” She lifted his hand, and Will half-expected her to kiss it, but instead she checked his pulse. “Just tell me. You will not kill me; you will not eat me. Ever.”

Silence.

“Hannibal,” he heard himself growling through aching, raw pain. “Just say it.”

“Is that what you want, Will?”

“Yes.” Things were beginning to unravel again, blurring in and out of his awareness. “Please.”

He rasped, almost falling into a cough again. “It’s your lucky day, Bedelia: I will not kill you. I will not eat any part of you. Today or any day after.”

Bedelia met his eyes and afforded him a slight nod.

Her movements began to speed up, and she was already filling a syringe and readying something off to her side. “And you, Mr. Graham?”

“I won’t—“ A flicker of blackness. “I won’t kill you.” The light reeled around him. “I won’t--any— “

The last sound he heard was Hannibal’s breath slowing, steadying-- and then the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this fic came from seeing the #Hannictober prompt for 10/28 , tarot cards (which will be evident in the chapter three). The rest of it blossomed--and continues to blossom--from that little seedling. Thank you to the delightful creators of that challenge for finally giving me an idea I felt like writing down.
> 
> I've tried to capture the dark and indulgent sensuality of the show. Not always easy to do in prose without going overboard, at least for me. Forgive me if and when that gets to be too much. ;)
> 
> Also, fair warning: I have a burning passion for Bedelia & Will scenes. So there will be plenty of that to come. Sass and pretentious metaphors abound. Set your Bartlett's to Dante and/or Faust!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal finally awaken after the fall to find themselves wounded, lost, and penned in by the good Dr. Du Maurier and their own uncertain future.

 

**Chapter 2**

_Four days after the fall_

The pavement wrapped over a hill, out to the horizon, a gray vein unclogged in the almost-light of the early morning. Winston pulled him along, gently at first, then with more and more force toward the park, a green-brown stain in the distance. The people they passed were all familiar—Jack, Alana, Margot, Freddie. But instead of greeting him, they passed in silence, glowering from alien eyes--all pupil, no whites. Winston pulled past, only growling briefly as Mason Verger floated past, his face half-eaten but eyes still dead and black.

When they arrived at the park, Bedelia was waiting. She smiled, an expression even more sinister after the parade of spite. From the pocket of her dress, she pulled a small silver key, and, after turning it several times in her hand, she used it to open the iron gate that blocked their way. The path, outlined by an arch of trees, seemed to lead into an Escher jungle. But Winston pulled on, and so he continued, Bedelia trailing lazily behind.

They walked for a time, the simple scenery repeating like an old cartoon, the same bush-and-brambles frame cycling again and again. Occasionally, Winston would stop and howl, and, almost from the corner of his vision, Will would catch a glimpse of the black stag, looming. As soon as he tried to fix it in his gaze, it disappeared, and Winston pulled on. 

Bedelia whistled some uncanny tune, swinging the gate keys, lackadaisical, as they continued.

At the crest of a hill, the stag was finally visible on the path ahead, intricate antlers a confused silhouette against the branches above. Winston broke free, giving chase, and Will had no choice but to run after. Bedelia didn’t run, but somehow she was always over his shoulder, never losing ground.

Winston caught the beast just off the path. He was too far behind to see the attack, but he heard the desperate, anguished echo of it. It was not in Winston’s disposition to harm anything, yet there was no mistaking the thick black blood matting the dog’s fur and dripping from its jaws.

Lying, gravely injured on the ground, the stag had metamorphosed into a songbird, small and broken, two perfect wounds in its belly and a wing bent, unnatural, at its side. Its song was warped, feeble: its tiny eyes were fixed in terror on Will.

_What is your first instinct?_ Bedelia whispered, seductive, brushing her lips feather-light against his ear.

Tenderly, Will knelt down and cradled the bird in his palm. _I want to help it._  It struggled for only a moment before slumping its sick weight against him, glancing at the treetops as if it yearned, pointlessly, to fly.

Before he could think, before it could either die or try to flee, he pinched off its beak and devoured it entire.  He could feel its broken body writhing down the well of his throat.

_Bones and all_ , Bedelia sneered, taking his face in hers, forcing her tongue into his mouth and licking the small bird’s taste from his lips.

He woke with a start, then immediately regretted it, every part of him still aching.

It took him the space of three breaths to orient himself and to remember. By the fourth breath, he sat up, unwilling to be prone.

He noticed a few things quickly. First, Bedelia was, despite his fears, nowhere to be seen.  Second, while his face felt tight from stitching and his entire body was stiff with bandages, he was able to move again. And third, he was not alone.

Sitting before a floor-to-ceiling window—or rather lying upright in a reclining chair—Hannibal was silhouetted against a soupy, clouded sunrise. He, too, was heavily bandaged, and one of his arms was in a sling. But his face, while slightly gray, was its natural mask, dark eyes fixed outward but also very much inwards. “Good morning, Will.”

“Good morning.” He winced, and reached up, ginger, to his cheek. It was all suture and fragmented skin.

“Try not to speak too much. We mustn’t undo Dr. Du Maurier’s good work.”

Will began a very slow and careful attempt to swing his legs off the bed and to the floor. Something in his back creaked, then seized up, and he knew there would be no quick getaways. “Where _is_ the good doctor?”

“I have not seen her this morning.” Will marveled at the matter-of-fact tone, as if they were all just waking from a good vacation lie-in.

Him, on the other hand….The panic and tightness were crawling up from the pit of his stomach, leeching warmth from his extremities as the weight of it settled, hot within his chest.

He was alive. That was not the plan.

Hannibal was alive. That was _certainly_ not the plan.

Bedelia had them both in her coils. He had no idea where they were or how long he had been unconscious. He had no idea how Hannibal would react to his having tried to murder-suicide them or to the idea that Will had told Bedelia about it beforehand.  He had no idea how their current path could lead to anything other than killing, being killed, or ending up back at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

_Damn the pain_ , he thought, pushing himself to standing. He realized at that moment that one of his legs was in a makeshift splint. The pain braced him, brought him back to the present. Pain could be good like that—a lens to focus the mind.

He allowed it focus him, white-hot, until he had hobbled his way to the window beside Hannibal.

“Your leg is healing better than I’d expected.” Will did not want to look at Hannibal, though he sensed Hannibal looking up at him.

“More than I can say for my face,” he replied, catching a glimpse of his piebald cheek in the glass.

“Bedelia has a tight hand: it will scar, but your face will still be yours.”

“A face for radio.” He had meant it to sound joking but it came out all sneers.

Outside, the day was overcast and misty. Wherever they were was remote, thickly treed, and the sea was nowhere in sight. He closed his eyes, looking inward, doing his best to remember how they had gotten here—what had happened to bring them to this absurd point.

They had been falling, all too aware of the nearby death-threat of rock, but, despite the odds, they had missed that, landing instead full into the sea. From that height the water turned to steel, and he remembered, vividly, his shoulder crunching as they’d penetrated the first wave. Then the much anticipated blackness.

Then the dizzying, befuddling pull upwards. Water projecting from his lungs and lips, and a net drawing him forth. Him and Hannibal, though, at that point they were one being, curled together as they had been. A face that would not come into focus. A voice. A touch.

There had been a van. There had been some immediate assessments and interventions. Mostly for Hannibal. It had been dark and small and closed. And then more black.

Bedelia’s face was the next thing he remembered.

“What does Bedelia have planned for us, do you think?”

“Bedelia is working very hard to shape what _we_ have planned for _her_.”

 “Are you really going to leave her alive? Not so much as a nibble?”

Whether consciously or unconsciously, Hannibal opened and closed his fists. “I always keep my promises, Will. And, dying or not, I promised I would not kill her.”

“Think she’ll return the favor?”

“Bedelia is a voyeur and always has been. She will want to see what comes next.”

His picture of their devil’s honeymoon grew clearer. How many times, he wondered, had she stood aside and watched, trembling with a mixture of fear and arousal, as her husband rang a neck, dissected a corpse, prepared the tartar. She had someone to crush the bird for her, and he had someone to appreciate his musings about it afterwards. “I can see why you two got on.”

He sighed. “I will miss the taste of her.”  His tone was equal parts loving and annoyed, and the sound of it made something angry and sick scrabble in Will’s belly. 

Hannibal shifted, a tightness around his eyes the only sign of his pain. It wasn’t until he had moved his feet tentatively that Will realized he was trying to stand.

“I don’t think you should be moving.” Hannibal’s midsection was heavily bandaged, and he knew Bedelia must have done serious surgery to repair the damage from the Dragon’s bullet. He wasn’t sure how many days they’d been out, but it hadn’t been long enough.

Hannibal gave the smallest of groans and stilled. “Nor do I. However, I fear nature is calling, and Bedelia did not think to provide me with discreet means…”

Will’s cheeks heated. “Oh.” He’d grown so accustomed to predator Hannibal that the idea of him having to do something as human as take a leak never occurred to him.

Will looked around then stared at his hands for a moment, trying to work out a way to do this while maintaining the polite physical distance they had implicitly agreed to. They broke physical boundaries happily when trying to kill someone—or one another. But casual circumstance had always called for courteous distance.

There was nothing for it, this time, though. He tried to project a kind of nonchalant efficiency, but his hands still stuttered as he reached down, hooking his arm under Hannibal’s shoulders.

Hannibal pulled back. “Allow me some dignity, Will.”

“Yeah, there’s loads of dignity in pissing yourself.”

He tutted but did not object further.

The older man’s frame was large, and in his own injured state, Will had to lean very close to gain purchase enough to pull Hannibal to his feet. Crouched close, Hannibal’s breath skimmed hot across his neck. Beneath his arm, he was all too aware of the firm weight of Hannibal’s body, taut with the effort of unfolding. Something entirely different stirred in his belly.

Once they were standing, Will gave him a moment to catch his breath and, to be fair, to catch his own. His skin pulsed with the drum of his heart, hot with blood and exertion, and he hoped desperately that Hannibal could not feel it. His swallow seemed to him to echo, dry and difficult.

“I believe the facilities are through that door just there.”

Will nodded, his arm under Hannibal’s, taking slow, careful steps.

He had been in Hannibal’s presence many times, but he had not truly allowed himself this physical recognition: this sense of the other man’s size, his scent, his _feel_. He was amazed at the new depth this added to his feeling of who Hannibal was—the reality of him.

_Touch gives the world an emotional context_ —true, of course, but it worked in reverse as well.  Touch gave reality _to_ emotional context. And he and Hannibal had been marinating in nothing but emotional-fucking-context for too long.

By the time they had reached the door, his tension eased. He turned the knob and attempted to help Hannibal across the threshold.

“Will.” Quiet but stern. “I’m afraid that’s as much humiliation as I will tolerate today.” As Hannibal disentangled himself from Will’s arms, they locked eyes, and Will knew that everything he had thought and felt, including the heat burning in the furnace of his belly, was now laid bare between them.

There were no words, since neither of them had the right ones. Hannibal closed the door behind him.

Will didn’t need to turn; the spice of Chanel announced her well before her voice.

 “Often, when the shadow of death passes, we feel the need to touch and to be touched by those who have passed through it with us. A primal and passionate affirmation of our ability to feel…” The sound of bare feet ghosting across hardwoods. “That being said, of course, you should wait a bit before you attempt to _affirm_ anything with Hannibal. He still has quite a bit of healing to do.”

He could not look at her, knowing that she would see his thoughts as easily as Hannibal had. “He was right. You are the consummate voyeur.”

“Penned up with the consummate sadist and masochist.” He could hear her opening a cabinet and pouring a drink behind him. He wondered if it was possible for her to carry on a conversation without a glass in hand. “A perfect arrangement.”

When he finally turned, she was lounging on the other side of the room. She wore a dressing gown as if she’d just woken, but her hair was impeccably styled and her makeup was exact and complete, down to precisely painted red lips. “I must admit, I did not truly expect to see you again, Mr. Graham. You had the look of a man ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. Did you change your mind before you pulled yourself over the edge or was it on the way down, staring into the face of your beloved as you raced toward the abyss?”

“I stared into the abyss, and it stared back, I suppose.”

A perfect arched brow. “You cried out for it.”

“Right now I’m crying out for an Aspirin. Your pompous droning is giving me a headache.”

Hannibal cleared his throat. “It’s going to grow quite tiresome if I’m forced to spend my convalescence listening to you two snipe at one another.” He was slumped in the bathroom door, and, without thinking, Will closed the distance between them, supporting him once more.

A smug smile draped across her face, Bedelia crossed the room, the sound of her measured steps mocking his quick ones. She opened a large cupboard, unfolded a wheelchair and rolled it in their direction. “In case your arms tire, Mr. Graham.”

He felt her watching as he helped Hannibal into it, every movement now somehow telling, a symbol of something Deep and Capitalized. As he sat back, Hannibal accidentally glanced Will’s good cheek with his own. The rough slide of stubble against his skin raised gooseflesh down his back. His breath hitched, and he pulled away, refusing to look at anyone and wishing like hell he had some of whatever Bedelia was drinking.

“Thank you, Will.”

All he could do was nod in return.

“And good morning to you, Bedelia.”

“Good morning, Hannibal.” She had returned to her perch and her drink. Will was satisfied to see that she looked ever so slightly uncomfortable to see Hannibal moving towards her, even if he was rolling. “You two are already moving with more ease than expected. That is good news.”

“Indeed.”

“If you are hungry, Dr. Yettick has brought in omelet and fresh-squeezed orange juice as well as, I believe, croissant.”

Hannibal, Will recalled , abhorred croissant unless it was fresh and very, very French. Will had offered him a day-old coffee shop croissant once and got as murderous a glare as Hannibal Lecter could give—and that was saying something. 

“Thank you for the kind offer: perhaps just some water. I don’t believe I could handle any solids just yet.”

“Of course. Mister Graham?”

“Who the hell is ‘Dr. Yettick’?” he said, knowing that Hannibal needed him to do the pressing right now. A face, still shadowed, flashed again among the shards of his memory. “He’s the one who pulled us out of the water and brought us here..?”

Hannibal looked at Will in a way that told him he had no memory of that event. Unsurprising: the first memory Will had of Hannibal after the fall was of a man gray and still and seemingly lost.

“No. Your Japanese friend ‘transported’ you both to me: by which I mean she dumped you on my apparently-not-remote-enough doorstep at St. Jude’s. She was armed and quite insistent that we not let you die—well that we not let Hannibal die, at any rate. Dr. Yettick is the superintendent there and was kind enough to help me stabilize you and deliver you here to his vacation home. With discretion. He also keeps the FBI believing that I remain secluded in rehab upstate.”

“Believable.” he said, with a pointed look at her almost empty glass. “And you ensure his loyalty….?”

“With money.” The man, hazy from his memory, strolled into the room, looking like a room service waiter with his covered silver dish and carafe of ice water. “And excellent company.”

The smile Bedelia gave him told Will instantly how revolting she found this man. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, setting the food down on the table in front of Bedelia and retrieving glasses for water and coffee from the cabinet nearby. He was short and skinny, with a pinched face that reminded Will of the rodents they’d kept in the labs during undergrad. “Bedelia has told me all about your predicament, and I sympathize, I really do.” He grinned, an expression that somehow made his features even more grotesque.

The smarmy, faux-sincere way he said this made Will ask, “Are you a psychiatrist as well, Dr. Yettick?”  Violent murder was sounding better and better as he considered the possibility of sitting in a room with three shrinks staring at him.

“No, no. I obtained my medical degree, and, for a time, I was a cardiologist. But I was called to the Lord’s service soon after my residency ended. A different sort of work of the heart.”

That was almost enough to put him off his breakfast.

“As I said, Dr. Yettick is the superintendent of St. Jude’s Retreat, the finest rehabilitation center in the northeast,” Bedelia said, finishing her drink. “I visited his establishment for a time after the…incident with my patient. It was a productive stay, and Dr. Yettick is most careful to guard the absolute privacy of his clients. As far as anyone knows, I have been locked up there since the day Mr. Graham visited my office for the last time.”

“Upscale rehab? That’s the Lord’s work?” 

"I’ve found that it pleases the Lord most when I take money from rich people who need cucumber water, high-speed internet, and a place to hide themselves and their misdeeds for a time. And, if their insurance will chip in while they have a mud bath, all the better.”  He poured a glass of water and offered it to Hannibal. Hannibal’s face was all politeness, but the unwavering eye contact was unmistakable. _Imagining fifty ways to prepare filet au Yettick._

“But, as I said, you have no need to worry on my account. Bedelia is paying me well for my discretion and my services. The breakfast comes free of charge,” he said with a simper. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have quite a drive back to the office.”

The air of politeness they had maintained evaporated almost the instant he was out the door.

“Glad I didn’t make any promises about killing that one.” Hannibal’s expression twinkled in a way Will had rarely seen. “Where is Chiyoh now?”

Bedelia shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since we brought you here. Once it was clear you would live, she skulked off as laconically as she skulked in. She didn’t want you to die, but I don’t think she wanted to see you once you lived either.”

Hannibal looked away, saying nothing.

“A sentiment I can’t exactly blame her for,” she added.

After several ticks of silence, Will allowed himself to spoon two small lumps of egg onto a plate. As much as it hurt his pride to accept Bedelia’s hospitality, the gnawing insistence of his stomach hurt even more.

“As for Dr. Yettick, he can be trusted. He and his establishment _are_ renowned for their privacy-- a refuge for shamed socialites and trustfunders. In fact I believe Margot Verger spent some time there, back before her marital and maternal bliss.”

A cold stab of fear at the name. Will could sense Hannibal’s ears perking up the way an antelope might feeling the lion’s eyes turn its way.

“And if it affects _your_ moral calculus,” she continued, looking pointedly at Will and not Hannibal. “Consider this variable: without him, you two would be blue and bloated, six feet under a St. Jude’s pine.” She shrugged as if she didn’t care one way or the other.

When he looked back, Hannibal’s smile was deep and unsettling. “What _are_ you going to do with us, Bedelia?” And slightly affectionate.  “You’ve caught the snake by the head; however shall you let it go?”

Will had to admire the way he had sprung on her, turning the conversation sharply enough that she was forced to pause, swerve, recalibrate.

“I have plans only for myself.”

“She ‘obfuscates,’” Will scoffed. “She does that a lot.”

She set her empty glass between them . “Whenever the two of you please, I will absent myself and make an appearance at St. Jude’s.”

“Oh _, pretty_ please.  Any time now.”

His reply was automatic, but as soon as the words left his mouth, his mind hesitated. If Bedelia left, it would truly be the two of them, he and Hannibal. The time would stretch ahead of them, alone, a desert to cross with their throats still full of blood and saltwater. They were in it together—truly enveloped, swallowed whole, by these new circumstances. There were only so many conversations they could have about teacups and church collapses before they would have to, inevitably, make it back to…

_But do you ache for him?_

And she knew. He felt the distinct sensation of her lapping up his discomfort with her eyes.

 “I will come back in a week or so to check in, provide any needed medications, and ensure that your recovery is progressing apace—until such time as you are able to make other arrangements.”

And then it was Will’s turn to savor _her_ discomfort as Hannibal reached out for her hand, all honeyed and razor-sharp charm. “Thank you, Bedelia.”  

Shaking slightly, she offered it, breath slow, unable to look away from whatever might happen next.

Hannibal did not blink as he leaned forward—so slowly--and kissed it.  Will could see, on the split screen of his mind, a simultaneous reality in which Hannibal sunk his teeth into the slim arch of her hand, pulling away a finger and slurping it down like a strand of spaghetti, a delicate gout of blood misting his chin.

“Just remember what you’ve promised.” It was a bedroom voice—the kind that spoke of sweat and release.

“I never forget a promise.”

As if unable to bear anymore of his eyes on her, she turned her gaze to Will. Her breath seemed to return to normal, and, for a moment, a hint of amusement played along her crimson lips. He could hear her again, as if she still stood in her office, pinning him with her words. _Is this a declaration of love, Mr. Graham? Or a farewell? Or haven’t you decided yet?_

 “When I return, I hope to find the two of you…” Her eyes slid between them. “On the mend.”

And then she was gone.

And they were alone.

Hannibal watched her leave, then sat watching the empty space she had inhabited for a moment before turning his face to Will. The weak sunlight poked a pinhole through the mist and, for a moment, flashed across Hannibal’s dark eyes, reminding him sickeningly of mirror shards.

Will found he could do nothing except sit, focused on his thousand bodily aches, ignoring any other aches he might or might not be feeling.

Silence spread through the empty house, broken only by the occasional clink of his fork or by the faint scratch of the wheelchair along the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read thus far, and a special thank you to those who've kudosed and/or commented! <3
> 
> The next chapter, which is a little on the longer side, is set months _after_ the fall. There's a bit of wobbly-time, but it's always marked at the beginning of the chapter. About half the chapters will be right after the fall and half the chapters will be set in the time period of Chapter 3, where Will and Hannibal have more to worry about than healing their boo-boos and making kissy faces. 
> 
> Okay, but there will still be kissy faces, obviously. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months after the fall, Will and Hannibal have just begun to relax a bit when they encounter a woman who knows too much. The question for Will is always the same: murder or mercy?

**Chapter 3**

_Five months after the Fall_

 

 

The only thing that truly grounded him these days were the tastes. The bite of cardamom.  Smooth, firm tartar.  Sweat and fear zesting skin. And him—the taste of him.

He surveyed the streets and found them gray. He surveyed the people and found them dull. Non-descript store fronts peppered with forgettable faces; the same market cart with the same produce repeated end on end. Walking through the world these days he felt as if they clashed—as if the scenery was all plywood and paint.

Some of that feeling came from the sheer absurdity of having survived. It wasn’t supposed to work out that way. He’d planned for it in the back of his mind, of course: in the abstract way you plan to spend lottery winnings. But he hadn’t expected to wake up, waves crashing, still wrapped like lovers. Everything after took on the quality of a dream: ghostly, uncertain, half-real.

Except for the tastes. Will had become a tongue.

Unthinking, his eyes fell to Hannibal’s lips.

Catching his look, Hannibal barely paused from his appraisal of vegetables. “The proverbial cat with the canary.”

 “I _am_ hungry. Are you thinking of canary for this evening?”

He paused. He did love a good thought exercise. “We could do it with a pate-topped crouton, same as a quail.” A beat of amusement. “But the cat would have more meat.”

The customer beside him glanced up from beneath the brim of her hat, looking for a laugh or a smile to be sure of the joke. Seeing only Will’s scarred face staring back, she moved on quickly.

“Must be a cat person,” he murmured. “So canary on pate-topped crouton. Tarragon?”

“You always say tarragon.”

“It’s the only vaguely gourmet-sounding thing I know. And I like it.”

“You’d think you might have picked up a few things. You’ve been watching me, after all.” 

Will couldn’t help picturing him, knife in hand, slicing leg-de-Du Maurier with a tenderness and a feral joy.

Outside, the hot afternoon sun moved behind a cloud. His face and body cooler and more relaxed, they walked for a time in silence, and he knew from the comfort of habit that later, over wine and with full bellies, he would get to hear whatever it was Hannibal was considering behind his arranged, expressionless face. Canto upon canto of things noted, what they’d evoked, what they signified. Will would listen and respond, a chorus, a sounding board, sometimes a dissent. And then, in a moment, Hannibal would stop and look into Will’s eyes in a way that Will allowed from no one else. And the dance would reverse.

The previous evening, Hannibal had been sitting across from him at the table when they joined eyes over empty plates.

“You seem quite yourself today, Will. Quieted. At ease. That’s not always the case.”

 “I’m full of good food and drink-- and am anticipating all good things to come.” Will had felt rather than seen Hannibal’s response. “I’m beginning to…relax into this new absurdity. Some days more than others.”

Hannibal stood to refill his glass. “Perhaps you are finally able to understand what your heart has done. You have chosen, and your mind is beginning to catch up.” He tipped the snifter into Will’s half-empty glass as well. “Dante described the vestibule of Hell as a place for all those who, in life, did not live one way or another—those who made no choice between good or evil, sin or salvation. They lived dully and safely : neither Heaven nor Hell cared to take them. And so God condemned them endlessly to run in circles, chasing a meaningless banner, tormented by the stings of wasps and hornets as they were stung in life by the small passions of the everyday.” 

 “Still, it’s better than being in Hell proper, isn’t it?”

“I suppose Dante thought so. I myself would rather go into a room of my choosing and face unknown horrors than wait eternally outside, knowing peace but not life.” A sip. “And they still had to walk on maggots and worms, so playing it safe didn’t gain them much.”

Unsure, he’d lifted his glass. “To exiting the vestibule, then.”

Hannibal mirrored him, then, slowly, he leaned forward. So close, his face, though arranged, betrayed a hint of sorrow. “Do you imagine you are entering Hell?”

To that, he’d had no response. Instead, he’d closed the little remaining distance with a kiss and changed the direction of the dance entirely.

“I hate to spoil what appears a delightful reverie, but I believe the woman in the black cloche has been following us for some time.”

Will allowed a beat before his eyes went in search. He found her peering into a shop window across the street. “The cat person. Yes.”

“She was on the sidewalk when we came out from lunch and has been within eyeshot ever since.” It still amazed Will how Hannibal’s face could betray no emotion and yet display his disdain so utterly. “These children. It’s almost farcical.”

Will had to agree. She was clearly not an agent: what she was he couldn’t be sure. A tabloid writer, perhaps, or a Freddie Lounds fan, a vigilante-- or simply one of those deranged few who follow serial murder stories the way teens follow square-jawed boys. But he didn’t need to be an empath to know that she was following them. The position of her body in space, her furtive walk—even the feigned insouciance of her window shopping.  “A black hat. Subtle.”

Without a word, Hannibal sped up and took a sudden turn. Glancing for only a moment to be sure Will had kept up, he crossed to the opposite side of the street and, just as suddenly, pushed into the only occupied storefront, the bell of the door jangling angrily.

Both men turned to the plate glass. As if on cue, the woman sauntered around the corner, trying and failing to look inconspicuous as she searched for her targets. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Will jumped slightly, but Hannibal turned with perfect poise. “Good afternoon, madam. Forgive our noisy intrusion. It was most rude.”

“Not at all.” There was a brief pause, and, when she smiled at him, it was like looking out across the white expanse while ice fishing: cool, peaceful, but not happy.

Reflexive, his brain began to break her down, body language, dress, demeanor. Though Hannibal had apologized, she did not seem at all bothered by their appearance nor by the fact that they clearly had not entered with the intention of patronizing her establishment. Unlike most, she didn’t attempt to make eye contact with him: her eyes fixed just wide. He wasn’t sure if it was her hoary dress or white-blonde hair that made him think it, but the words rose to the front of his mind, unbidden, as such impressions often did for him. _White witch._

And then, immediately, he knew—a brief tingle of recognition. She was reading him the same as he was reading her. Like two mirrors opposing, he lost himself momentarily in the infinite regress.

 “At this time of the day, my shop is quite visible to the streets. Perhaps the two of you would like to come through to the back…? It affords a bit more…privacy.” When neither of them responded, she continued, “I can certainly let you know if and when your friend departs.” Her expression was flat and polite, betraying nothing.

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“Avinell.” She pulled back a curtain, exposing the hallway beyond. “Just through here.”

Hannibal looked pointedly at Will and then out the front window. The woman in the black hat was strolling on the opposite side of the street with suspicious slowness, trying to decide if they had moved on or taken refuge.

Will stepped past the curtain and the White Woman who smelled of sandalwood. The room at the end of the hallway was dim, but it was a pleasant sort of dim: less smoky pool hall and more evening chapel. A mahogany table draped in indigo voile dominated, and on it sat three telling objects: a crystal ball, a simple black mirror, and a deck of what appeared to be tarot cards turned face-down.

Suddenly his first impression made sense: she _was_ reading him.

“Feel free to have a seat, gentlemen.” She indicated the nearest chairs, which looked just worn enough to be welcoming. There must be a bit of an art to picking out the appropriate décor for a psychic space, he mused; it had to be calming and mystical without being tacky or overwrought.  This room managed it, but only just: like the woman’s sandalwood smell and her vaguely anachronistic lace dress it was _almost_ too much.

“Could I interest you in something to drink? Water or…I’ve just opened a bottle of claret if that’s more to your liking…?”

Will was finding it difficult to get a beat on her, perhaps because she was trying to do the same with him. He tried out what he’d been told was a winning smile.  “Do you normally serve wine with your readings?”

“No, I don’t. However, you two seem like you might appreciate a moment alone. Getting a drink seemed as polite a pretense as any.” 

Hannibal chuckled softly behind him. “Quite right, Miss Avinell. We are very much obliged.”

She nodded in Hannibal’s direction and stepped out, closing the door behind her.

Hannibal sat, looking into the dark mirror before him. The brief trail of Hannibal’s shadowy reflection froze in his eyes a moment, connected with a forgotten image. A dark stag, still haunting some recess of his mind. _No_ , _not now._ That sort of thing had to stay walled off for the time being: someday he would come back to it, but not today.

“I think we can both agree it is time to move on.”

Will had known that whatever their time together held, they would be on the move. He had been prepared for this. They had talked about it more explicitly than anything else that lay ahead. Where they could go, who they could trust and who they certainly couldn’t. Where Alana and Margot would be. This still made Will uneasy. Bedelia was one thing: she’d had it coming. Hannibal had seen the worry in Will’s face when he’d mentioned it, and so had not pressed it farther. But Will knew that, sometime soon, Hannibal would be looking to fulfill his promise to Alana. What he would do then…

_No, not now_.

Uncomfortable, his chest tight, he forced himself to move on. “And this woman—the psychic—I don’t like her.”

“Truly? I find her peculiarity charming. I imagine she excels at her job.”

“She’s…empathic? Or something similar. She was trying to read us, at any rate.”

“I noticed. I am rather used to being dissected by an empath, so I know the signs.” He gestured for Will to have a seat. “Probably an exceptionally useful skill for passing as a psychic—a different type of profiling.” As he spoke, he reached out and touched the backs of the tarot cards. They were blank white, and the cards themselves were softened about the edges. Will could tell that Hannibal wanted to peek at the images beneath, but that would have been rude, so he refrained.

“I’ll keep it in mind as a second career option.” Will took the offered seat. “So you don’t think she’s run off to call the police while we sit here in her back room fondling her crystal ball?”

“No. I don’t think so. I think she’s hoping to turn us into customers.”

Will leaned back, staring across the table into the polished crystal. In it his face inverted, turning his frown into a ghoulish smile. “It’s just—she was holding something back.”

“Of course she is. Like all psychics and oracles, she’s a charlatan.” He had picked up an edge of the voile tablecloth and was running it between his fingers, disapproving. “Charlatans must obscure the truth: it’s in their nature.”

The word charlatan brought to mind no one so quickly as Frederick Chilton: shallow, bombastic, posturing. The White Woman hadn’t been posturing: when his mind touched her she felt steely and deep, like a snow drift.  And that was the thing about the deep and opaque: it could hide all manner of traps. “She doesn’t feel like a charlatan.”

“No. As I said, I suspect she’s quite good at what she does.”

Will found Hannibal’s eyes. He didn’t do that lightly, but there were times where he needed that extra line into Hannibal’s mind. And, for him, Hannibal’s eyes had become windows. They had grown close enough the last few months that they opened to him.

And he needed to know now what Hannibal was thinking. What he was planning. “Do you think our fan out there will have people looking for us?”

“Perhaps.”

“Shouldn’t we leave now?”

“As soon as she’s given up, we can return and gather our things. I have destinations in mind, both temporary and ultimate, where I think we might stay for a time. You forget, Will: I have done this before.”

“You got caught.”

“Only because I wanted to be caught,” he whispered. “By you. Now I have every reason to hide for the rest of my days.”

The tightness in Will’s chest loosened. He didn’t think he would ever truly become accustomed to that sort of quiet yet resolute proclamation. He looked down at his hands and thought of those first moments waking in the sand, hands tangled in one another’s hair.

And he pushed the fear behind a wall.

Hannibal continued. “I don’t believe our fan got pictures. She will need those if she’s working for a tabloid. If she’s not, then I doubt she’ll be eager to turn us in until she’s subjected us to some tedious questions or musings. The rubbernecks can be quite tiresome: the last one made an excellent ragout, though.”

Will didn’t have time to think or feel anything about the notion: the White Woman reappeared with their wine.

Both men thanked her, and it must have been halfway decent because Hannibal didn’t balk at the smell. Will didn’t know much about wine, and he didn’t much care. It was the perfect remedy for his nerves now.

“Your friend in the black hat has moved on,” she said, matter of fact, once again looking just past Will rather than directly at him. “You needn’t feel obligated to stay, but you’re welcome to, of course.”

Hannibal allowed the wine to stay on his tongue a moment and gave it a clear look of approval. “I see no reason to hurry away, especially from a good glass of cabernet. Thank you for your generosity…and your discretion, of course.”

“Of course.” She was almost whispering, as if she was afraid to say it aloud. “I think it’s a shame that, even in this day and age, two people in love should have to keep it a secret.”

Perhaps he had been feeling more anxiety about their fugitive status than he’d thought: he had almost convinced himself that she was either truly clairvoyant or was working undercover and knew everything. Of course she had assumed they were closeted lovers. “My family is not particularly…enlightened. It would be better for everyone if our time together was ours alone.”

“Of course. My brother—“

Both Hannibal and Will looked up to see what had stopped her. She was staring at the cards on the table. 

“Miss Avinell…? Is something wrong?”

She looked to Hannibal. “You touched the cards.”

Were there cameras? He searched the corners and the cracks nearby but saw nothing. He hoped, for her sake, there weren’t. Hannibal did _not_ like being recorded.

“Yes, I did. Forgive me, I was curious.”

“No. Don’t apologize. It’s just…they wish to be read.”

With a wry smile, Hannibal shot Will a silent _I told you so_. “Oh? I wasn’t aware tarot cards could be so insistent.”

 “I understand that such a thing sounds ridiculous to men like you. As it should. And, truly, most of the time, the cards are just as anything else which people look to with questions about things to come: little more than tools to help the subconscious express its own wills and desires.”

Hannibal nodded. “’ _Know thyself’_.”

“As at Delphi, yes. Most of the time I am paid to help people read the Rorschach of their own hopes and fears. But there are occasions where—something, I don’t know what—reveals itself. I can feel it, sir, like the tense electricity before a thunderstorm. You came into this room with a question, a worry, as everyone does. But your question—it has an answer. And the cards hold it.” She looked at Hannibal with unexpected directness.  “Would you allow me to read what they will say?”

He had to admit that Hannibal was right on several counts. First, she was indeed trying to gain their custom. And second, she was _quite_ good at her job. Will found himself leaning forward, curious, as her voice took on the toning quality of a church bell, her hands poised on the cards.

But Hannibal had been wrong about one thing: she was not a charlatan. A liar, perhaps—but she was sincere in her belief.

Hannibal smiled. “ ’If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak, then, to me.’ ”

Hannibal only quoted Shakespeare when he was well and truly amused by something. Will glared at him. _Be nice._

Her voice had changed tenor again, her focus total. “A simple reading, then, I think, for a simple question. Three cards: past, present, future.” She pulled the first from the stack and turned it over between them. “The past.”

The card pictured a goat-headed demon, a man and woman in thrall. Though the man had a goat’s head, it was antlered, his skin jet black. 

_The Devil._

 He set down his wine glass and leaned forward further as she turned over the second card.

”The present.” Here an angel with glowing golden hair and a beatific smile blessed a man and a woman below.

_The Lovers_.

Will looked up at Hannibal. The smirk concealed just behind his face was gone. He was looking, intent, at the final card, which remained face down. The beginnings of danger had taken root in his eyes. Will looked away.

“The future.” A strong man holding a sword in one hand and, in his other, a scale. His skin was dusky, as if he sat in shadow.

_Justice._

None of them spoke for a long while. Hannibal sipped wine and looked at the pictures as if considering a work of art. The White Woman sat, patient, waiting.

Will did not believe in fortune telling, in psychics, or the Beyond. What he _did_ believe was that this woman was saying more than was good for her.

“What do you think it means, then?” Hannibal asked at length, his words no longer indulgent but grave and low. “What am I to see in the ink blots before me?”

She looked at Hannibal, and he looked back. There was an unspoken exchange between them, and for a moment, he saw two snakes, swaying in tandem, preparing to strike. “I cannot say. That is for you to decide.”

“Your fortune-telling leaves something to be desired.”

“I am not a fortune teller today. Merely a messenger.” Without warning, she turned to Will. “And you? Three cards lie here for you, as well.”

He said nothing, but she picked up the deck of cards nevertheless. From the bottom of the deck, she pulled three cards. “From the opposite side, as for lovers. The past.”

An old man holding aloft a lantern in darkness.

_The Hermit._

“The present.”  A man and his dog, with a rucksack and a hopeful expression.

_The Fool_.

“The future.” A scythe, cutting a vibrant, blooming rose from its vine.

_Death_.

“Six cards of the major arcana. That betokens momentous upheaval and change.”

“You aren’t kidding,” Will muttered, drinking the last of his wine. He looked down once again at the Devil, black face staring up, dead-eyed.

Will wanted to leave. It was enough, and, he could sense in the echo chamber of this mind the predatory desires uncoiling in Hannibal’s chest. He knew Hannibal would reach out, and, in a moment, squeeze all breath from the woman’s neck. He would take her eyes first. Will did not know what culinary oddity could be pieced together with eyes, but Hannibal would. He would remove them and then pose her, naked and white like the angel on the Lovers card. This was _his_ design.

Will couldn’t resist it. He could see it; he could even feel its pleasure, its delicacy. Moving that white skin, quickly cooling to blue. The beauty of crimson flowing down her cheeks, into that river of snowy hair. He could see it from above, like God. Like the card, she would be blessing them as they left, the Angel of Love and Death at once. _This is my design._

But it wasn’t his.

What he wanted right now was to get as far from this place as possible.

_It will be different--_ he _will be different than you imagine._

And then, suddenly, there was a separateness between them again, as the thought that it might truly happen struck him in the gut. A voice that he had thought muted sounded again deep in the center of his mind.

_And so will you._

This woman was about to die.

“You wear chaos like a suit, sir,” she whispered to Hannibal. “I am a champion of love, as I said. But this...” She looked to Will, her face mournful. “It will _destroy_ this one. You must see that.”

“You said you were a messenger, Miss Avinell. Whose message are you delivering today, hmm? Jack Crawford’s? Alana Bloom’s?”

The woman did not answer, nor did she seem to understand the question.

“Dear.” 

With the most reptilian of smiles, Hannibal looked to him.

Will shook his head slightly. 

It was the first time since Bedelia that the reality of a murder stood before them in earnest. They had discussed it, turned it over between them, examined it. They had an understanding. Yet it did not feel—easy. Or solid. Will had trouble getting his bearings in these cases: he found separating himself from his feelings for Hannibal from Hannibal’s feelings difficult, like unraveling a Gordian knot of empathy and psychopathy and love.

_Will you now enjoy the taste of flesh, Mr. Graham? Is that how you love him?_

_Damn you, Bedelia_. Even dead she was still mocking him.

He didn’t know what he felt, and that was enough to stop this now.

There was a split second—though it stretched longer than he would have liked—in which he was not sure Hannibal would be gainsaid. As he rose, Will saw him reach into his vest pocket, draw out his knife and jam it into her belly, so deep that fingers plunged into the walls of her flesh as well. The white of her dress blossomed red, and she didn’t have time to do more than whimper.

It did not happen. But he saw it, just as Hannibal saw it, in his mind’s eye.

“Dearest.” Two syllables, echoing like the click-click of a cocked gun. “Is it time for us to go…?”

“Long past.”

A perfect smile, sketched on a blank face. “Miss Avinell. When you commune with the one who sent us this message, be sure to send him our regards. Or her. And then I advise you to break those ties. Whoever sent you to us with such a message is…not a friend.”

Will fairly pushed Hannibal back into the hallway and out of sight.

A strange echo of the past, he felt a light hand on his shoulder and jumped.

When he turned, she was staring at him, as if in a trance. For the first time, she met his eyes fully. “See?”

He watched again, in his mind’s eye, as Hannibal removed his knife and buried it, deep. But this time it was not imagination but memory, and it was buried in him, full-pained and fierce with love. A caress that slid up, emptying his abdomen, drawing out his life.

“See?”

The White Woman grinned as she closed the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, this was the first inspiration scene for this fic, and everything grew from it. There will be plenty more to say about our "psychic" friend here.
> 
> The next few chapters go back to immediately after the fall and the creamy Hannigram slow-burn goodness that I know we're all looking for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone for the first time after the fall, Will and Hannibal find themselves in the kitchen.

**Chapter 4**

_One week after the fall_

 

 

Silence has a way of mutating.  Like a virus, undisturbed time is enough for it to strengthen a thousand-fold, until what seemed at first a tiny thing overtakes the host entire.

So were the first three days they spent alone together.

There was a good deal of sleeping. Will still found it difficult to be awake for more than an hour or two at a time, and the occasional pain pill drew him readily back into the tomb of his unconscious mind.  Hannibal slept even more, propped in his chair. He was as silent awake as asleep, and Will often had the impression that, even with his eyes open, the other man was lost in a dream, far away.

After the first day, Will forced himself to get out of bed once every few hours and walk. He wanted desperately to get a handle on things—to regain his bearings. The only place to start was here.

The house wasn’t large, but with muscles set aflame by the smallest effort, it was large enough. The room they slept in was the master suite, open to the daylight, with an airy feel conducive to convalescence. Beyond was a narrow hall that led to a smaller guest bedroom. It smelled of plastic furniture covers and disuse, walls blank and bedspread with the distinct look of never having felt a person’s touch.

At the end of the hallway was a small living room that included a wet bar. There was a comfortable chair and bookshelves lined with the kind of books a person displayed but didn’t really read. A small wine fridge held two bottles of Bâtard-Montrachet. When he first saw it, he considered hobbling back to tell Hannibal, but the silence had already overcome them, and he bit his still-swollen tongue, tucking the observation away for a better day.

Opening up from there was the kitchen. It was the heart of the house—the room from which all others stemmed. It had the same severe cleanness as Hannibal’s had, all stainless steel and slate-accented. The fridge and pantry were well-stocked. On the counter was a present he could only guess must have been from Bedelia: a simple straw basket filled with white truffles and figs. It gave the room a livelier scent than any of the others, and Will often paused there, leaning on the counter, to rest before walking further.

The kitchen branched into a formal dining room with a long mahogany table. Empty candelabras sat in the middle, an embroidered runner underneath. With its high ceiling it felt, at first, like a long-empty chapel. Two paintings faced one another over the table:  the first was a cherry blossom, blooming but limp, trailing across a dead blue backdrop. Will hated it instantly though he couldn’t say why. The second was a framed print of a woman grasping a centaur by the hair: Will knew it was a Botticelli but couldn’t call the name to mind. Bedelia, apparently, had been intent on leaving shades of Florence scattered throughout the house—whether out of sentimentality or to mock him, he couldn’t be sure. But seeing it made him regret anew the promise to spare her.

Taking a separate branch from the kitchen, there was the larger living room with seats carefully arranged for dinner parties and intimate conversations: it was a room waiting for a life yet to arrive. The only thing that appeared to have been used for its intended purpose recently was a mid-size television mounted on the wall. In the corner, a grand piano languished under a layer of dust, and, straining towards the light from a small window, a red flower was the only noticeable color.

Past this room were another two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. It had taken Will the entirety of his first day exploring to make it to this end of the house. There was nothing of note in these rooms save one thing: a phone.

It sat—a solid, old-fashioned landline phone—on the nightstand farthest from the door. When he entered the room, his eyes found it instantly, as a mother sees her child in a crowd. The first day, he turned away and went back to his bed without stepping over the threshold.

The next day, even though he told himself he was exploring, he found himself there again, staring at it. This time, he allowed himself to walk into the room and pick it up. It squawked a dial tone in his ear.

Hand shaking, he replaced the receiver and retreated again.

On the third day, he simply sat on the edge of the bed, staring, forced to consider everything he’d been avoiding or swallowing down alongside the pills.

It was a way out, a lifeline. He knew without a doubt that he could pick up that phone, call Jack Crawford, and all would be returned. Everyone would believe easily enough that Hannibal had done this—perhaps in conspiracy with Bedelia. At best Hannibal would be returned to his cell. At worst, he would no longer be able to claim insanity and would be put down.

Will could go back to Wolf Trap, perhaps. Maybe even, in time, Florida.

Is that what he wanted? His life back?

Then why could he not bring himself to pick up the phone?

“Will.”

He turned to see Hannibal’s wheelchair outlined in the doorway.

It took only a moment’s glance for Hannibal to see and understand. Will watched the shadow pass across his face: there was no true change, but Will sensed it all the same.

He rolled across the threshold, color in his cheeks. He had worked hard to get to this side of the house.  It was odd to hear his voice: they had not spoken a word since Bedelia left. “I’m feeling hungry.”

“Forgive me if that makes me feel like the last morsel in the fridge.”

Hannibal smiled, though his eyes slipped to the phone for a moment, and Will felt a strain in it. “I thought perhaps you might assist me in the kitchen?”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“I am an excellent teacher.” He turned and rolled away, leaving Will alone, staring at the phone.

For a moment—just a moment—he allowed his fingers to slide along the smooth edge of the handset.

Then he stood, aching, and followed Hannibal back towards the kitchen.

 

********************

“I don’t have much to work with, but we can put together something light. _Faki soupa_ perhaps. There were lentils at the top of the pantry.”

Will stretched as much as he could and pulled a bag of lentils from the highest shelf. The rest of the ingredients were already laid out with great care and purpose on the counter in front of him.  “Vegetarian?”

“Until my stomach is fully recovered. Then I am going to do something divine with lamb, I think.”

Will’s eyes met Hannibal’s, questioning, and Hannibal laughed.  The volume of it seemed obscene after their long quiet. Opening the freezer, he threw a slab onto the counter. The word “lamb” was printed neatly on the plastic. “Ahh, Will. It is good to hear your voice.”

“It’s good to see you up and moving.”

Hannibal looked at him a moment, as if considering something, then held out a bag. His arm trembled with the effort, body clearly still weak. “I’ll work with the tomatoes and the lentils. You can assist with the onions…?”

Something in the way Will removed the vegetables from the sack must have caused Hannibal to second guess this decision. “You do know how to mince onions, I assume?”

“I do.”

“They’ll need to be very fine for—“

“Hannibal. Give me a knife.”

He pressed his lips tight, pulling a knife from the block and holding it out. “If you need any guidance—“

“Hannibal.”

He held his hands up and turned away, busying himself at the low table with tomatoes and array of oils and herbs. Will did not miss, however, that he glanced back over his shoulder several times, monitoring the progress. _Only he would be more nervous about me ruining the soup than stabbing him in the back._

For a time, the knife felt good in his hand. A familiar, routine rhythm torn from daily life. But with each chop, memories returned—memories of that routine, of that life he had built before and after Hannibal. The one he had believed was his true life, his true self. He felt the distance between then and now—between those two hims.

There was a burning in his eyes that had to do with more than onions.

“I always chopped the onions for Molly. She hated it.”

The rapid metronome of Hannibal’s chopping paused then, adagio, continued with quiet restraint. “Are you having regrets, Will?” He did not look up or turn.

“More like regretting that I don’t feel enough regret.”

“If I’d known onions would result in such self-flagellation, I would have given you the garlic.”

His eyes were full of tears, but he smiled all the same.

Hannibal rolled across the kitchen to the stove, pulled a silver mill from a low cabinet, and dropped the tomato pulp inside, red and wet.

“Did you love her, Will?”

 “I loved who I was with her. How I was.”

“Who were you?”

He had set down the knife and was watching as Hannibal’s hands turned the pulp through the mill expertly.  “A dog. A loving, faithful dog.”

The tomatoes seeped, pulverized, in a long, thick paste, winding into the pan like blood pooling from a wound.  “Are you a dog, Will?”

 “I want to be.”  He leaned forward, taking in the scent, sweet yet acrid. “Did you love Bedelia?”

“No.”

“But you wanted to.”

“I wanted to see what would happen.” The heat of the stove flamed, and the tomatoes responded almost immediately by loosening, spreading. “If she would love me. If she would run. How she would taste after months of care.” He cocked his head, and Will wondered if he was just now realizing this. “And what she would say. Bedelia is nothing if not a good sparring partner. Was Molly?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time she was—complementary.”

“Someone to scratch behind your ear?” Hannibal removed the pan from the burner, face flat but tone sharp. “Tell you you’re a good boy?”

His first instinct was anger, but, after a moment, thinking back on their best moments together, he saw himself curled against her, her hands on his face, in his hair. She was all things loving and secure and warm. And he had repaid that, in his way, with devotion—to a point. The love of a dog without the loyalty. “I suppose so. That wasn’t such a bad thing.”

The heat from the bare burner was almost blistering as it rose up and settled in between them.

“What do _you_ want to be, Dr. Lecter?”

“The same as I always was.” The flame click-clicked into emptiness. “But with you.”

They both avoided looking at each other for a long while.

The future stretched out, effortless, in his mind’s eye. Meals cooked together in slate and steel kitchens. Conversations over fingers of whiskey, glasses of wine. Ease and the freedom of his thoughts, himself, the darkest sparking of his brain setting fire to his life.

But also the knives and the blood and the sourcing of all those dinners. The casual backdrop of violence and death that would become all his too-many mirror neurons could reflect, over and over, into forever. A part of him would be lost to it: some of the best parts of him.

Being loved like a stray was bland but gentle: Hannibal offered feral obsession. The attraction of two fireflies passing in the night and seeing one another in brief but unmistakable flickers, bright and then lost to the darkness.

His skin prickled, clammy and moist from the manic presence then absence of heat.

“I don’t think I can eat right now.”

Hannibal didn’t look up from the pan. “It will be ready when you are.”

He thought for a moment of sitting beside the phone again, but, in the end, opted for a pain pill and a long, dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters this weekend, as I'm out of town next weekend and won't be able to post then. 
> 
> A recipe for [faki soupa](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/member/views/greek-lentil-soup-faki-soupa-1202267).
> 
> On to Chapter 5!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal enjoys soup with a side of heart flambé.

**Chapter 5**

*************************

_Two weeks after the fall_

 

_Something smells divine_ , he thought, eyes flickering open. Candlelight danced around him, though he could see no candles, only the tiered high ceiling overhead, cast in guttering gold. His head was frozen, unable to turn, but it didn’t bother him. He knew where he was: the ridiculous cherry blossom flanked him on one side, the Botticelli on the other.  Under his back, flat and unyielding, the mahogany bit into his shoulder blades, unrelenting. He could smell the dishes, steaming and aromatic around him. Garnishing him.

Above him, haloed by the trey ceiling, stood Hannibal, eyes brimming with love. And her, lips carmine, skin like china draped in a veil of shadow, looking bored yet hungry. She held a silver knife so severely polished that it sang with brightness, electric with light.

_Does he daily feel a stab of hunger for you?_  

Her voice was husky as she lowered the knife. A cool edge, a wet bite, as it caressed his chest, opening the skin with a sigh.

Gentle as a lover, Hannibal reached down to peel back his skin and, after a beat to admire the expanse of white beneath, he wrenched the bone of Will’s chest asunder with a sudden and arousing crack,  exposing his beating heart. Will could feel it pulsing, hammering against the open air.  He was open to the world, and though he felt terror clogging his throat like so much cotton, he also felt a freedom, a relaxation that came through surrender.

With her usual calculated grace, Bedelia reached into him and held his heart up between them, a gruesome centerpiece. Will was amazed to see it ablaze, flames fringing it orange and blue—heart flambé.

_Vite cor tuum_ , she whispered. _Behold—your heart._

Then, with indifference, she turned and offered it to Hannibal, one arched brow.

As if cradling a baby bird, Hannibal took the heart in cupped hands. He looked at it, hungry, then at Will. Their eyes met, touched, and connected—the kind of eye contact Will could feel in the low, heavy pit of his stomach. He could feel himself in Hannibal’s hands, walled and embraced.

Understanding one another, Hannibal turned back to the heart and, with untamed fervor, sank his teeth in, tearing it in two. The room echoed with the sound of rending gristle and tendon. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, blood coating his lips and trickling down his chin, a thick moan muffled through the walls of Will’s heart. Will heard his own answering moan, helpless to stop it—unsure if he wanted to.

It took a few long moments for Hannibal to recover himself. Bedelia watched, raising a glass of white-gold wine to her lips, trailing red along the rim, a mirror of Hannibal’s chin.

Then they both looked to him.

Eyes reflecting low blue flame, Hannibal held out the half-gnawed heart in offering.

_It will be ready when you are_ , he whispered, allowing a single spot of blood to drip, warm and metallic, onto his lip.

Shivering with anticipation, Will opened his mouth to accept the proffered bite.

But his mouth found only empty air and the too-thick taste of stale breath.

Gold and shadow faded from view, replaced by the clear of day. The trey ceiling wilted into flat white, and the unyielding wood transformed into down and linen. But the smell remained: the scent of steam and spice lingering, the last remnants of dream trapped like stubborn wisps of mist in low valleys.

“I brought you some as well, if you’re hungry.”

Will turned to see Hannibal sitting in the chair beside his bed, a steaming bowl of soup in hand. As he raised the spoon to his lips, Will saw, for the merest of seconds, a lick of blue flame. When he blinked, it was gone.

He pushed himself to sitting. However long he’d slept, his pain pill had not lasted that long. “What did you make this time?”

“Avgolemono.”

Trying not to dwell on his dream, Will took the soup, pale yellow and lemon-scented. He could see bits of chicken: Will didn’t think Hannibal ever cooked chicken unless it was some sort of whole exotic black variety. This was regular, find-in-your-Campbell’s kind of chicken.

“My ingredients are limited by our pantry and the current state of my intestines,” he sighed, setting his soup down, half-eaten. “I have not cooked with frozen chicken breasts in a very long time: it’s like trying to play a concerto on a typewriter.”

Will disagreed. There was something perfect about this soup. It was, of course, delicious. Will had come to understand that anything Hannibal ever served would be nothing less. But this was something Will had never had from a dish of Hannibal’s: it was _comfort_ food.  Its flavors were delicate and complex, yet warm and understandable. It was the sort of thing that Will might have cooked for himself, if he’d known how. As a dish it was one part Hannibal, one part him. He wondered, as he took another sip, if it was a culinary compromise—an apology.

“I—love it,” he said finally.

Hannibal turned to look at him for a moment, searching for something in Will’s face and finding it. “I’m glad. I thought perhaps you might be sick of soups by now.”

“Chicken soup for the soul.”

“And the recently-perforated bowel.”

They were silent for a long moment, both trying to simply _be_ in one another’s presence. Will found that they were surprisingly bad at it. Their lives before the fall had always had a direction—a charge. They were partners solving crimes, they were friends sharing breakfast, they were enemies, closing ranks. They were long-suffering, reluctant companions on a suicide mission.

Now they had no story, no direction. They simply sat: two people who didn’t know what was shared and what remained.

“Were you eating soup and watching me sleep?” he said, doing his best to sound cheeky, but realizing, too late, that it sounded more accusatory.

“Some,” Hannibal admitted, unfazed. “Mostly I was drawing.” He leaned picked up a pile of what had looked like blank papers on the side table. Upon closer inspection, Will could see that they were begun and abandoned attempts at a sketch. From between the barely-used sheets, Hannibal drew out the most fully elaborated.

Will couldn’t help but laugh. “You saw the print in the dining room, then.” It was an almost photographic sketch of the Botticelli print he’d seen just moments before in his dream: in this sketch, however, the centaur’s face had been replaced with Will’s and the golden-haired woman’s face was Bedelia’s.

“Bedelia’s idea of a joke, I imagine,” Hannibal said, smiling slightly at his work, before laying it down on the table again. “ _Pallas and the Centaur_. Many art historians believe it was painted as the companion piece to _Primavera_. While the Primavera is a celebration of the beauty of earthly love, Pallas and the Centaur is a celebration of the victory of wisdom over lust—a rebuke of ill-considered carnality.”

_Of course it is_. Leave it to Bedelia to call him a ‘stupid slut’ through abstruse Renaissance metaphor.

“And you must admit: the two of you do bear more than a passing resemblance to the titular figures.”

“Are you saying I look like a centaur?”

“After a couple of weeks of not shaving, the thought had occurred to me.”

He chuckled and allowed himself, over the bowl of his spoon, to meet Hannibal’s eyes. The older man’s eyes were brighter than they had been in days, and, he realized after feeling the scrabble in his belly, there was something that almost qualified as happiness lurking there. Seeing this, Will felt a lightness in himself: it lasted only a moment and evaporated before he had time to name it, but it was the first true, free breath he’d had in…years? Had it truly been that long? Had he been holding it all this time?

He could only maintain the eye contact for so long, before it soured. He turned his gaze, instead to the papers on the table. “You like to draw portraits.”

“I enjoy drawing people, yes.  People I know more than anything else.” He let his own gaze linger on Will a few beats longer before he turned to the drawings as well. “The challenge is greater: there is more depth to capture—more to distill without flattening.”

“What got you started? With drawing, I mean.” Will heard himself asking, unsure suddenly where this was going. He had always felt most comfortable when he prodded first, and Hannibal had always obliged. It was an exchange they had perfected in those opposing seats, empty air balanced between.

If Hannibal was startled by the question, he didn’t show it. “My sister. When I was—nine or ten. She was sitting in a corner, brushing her doll’s hair, looking so like a doll herself. It was as if I were compelled. At first I merely wanted to capture her face: it had an intent innocence rare in that time and place. Then it was how her hair rooted behind her ears and swept back, curled at her neck. Then it was how the tendons of her neck sloped into her shoulders—and before I knew it, I had assembled her, piece by piece. Not a day went by after that that I did not draw or at least feel compelled to draw something or someone.”

Hannibal’s tone was matter of fact, but it was the most Will had ever heard him speak about himself in one go—at least without the intention of burying a linoleum knife in his gut.

“It became a part of my love for anatomy: the intricacies of its assembly and disassembly,” he added. “Long before I learned to use a scalpel, I used a pencil to dissect.”

Will set aside his bowl, empty, unsure of what to say.

“Not you, I imagine.”

“No,” Will said, lamely. “I’m not an artist. Never have been.”

“You have your own way of dissecting people,” Hannibal observed in that cool, easy way that set Will’s teeth on edge. 

“I’ve mostly been looking for ways to escape that, yeah.”

“Fixing engines, tying flies. Finding ways to get out of your own mind in the company of inanimate objects.”

“An engine is clean and logical. It behaves precisely how it should when cared for.”

“Unlike people,” Hannibal agreed. “Who sometimes throw you off the edge of a cliff when you least expect it.”

Everything in the room seemed to grow suddenly, exquisitely still. Will could hear the sound of his and Hannibal’s breaths rising and falling, call and response, and for a time, it was all he could do to listen.

When the silence crested, menacing as it arched above them, Will finally found words, fearing that it might otherwise overtake them altogether.

“You didn’t expect it? I find that hard to believe.”

“I endeavor always to live free of expectations, Will. Since I was a boy. I find it makes for better days.”  He sighed. “That said, it wasn’t _entirely_ unexpected.”

 “I’m sorry.”

Hannibal’s lip quirked. “That you did it or that we survived?”

 “I don’t know.”

It was true. He asked himself the same question every time he sat at the phone. Did he want to call or did he just think he should want to? Had he intended them to survive or had it been happenstance and Bedelia? Had Hannibal created this perfect feeling of dependency and mutual refuge through years of abuse and torment or had he endured years of abuse and torment because, deep down in that clutching part of his gut, he truly—

Even his mind paused, facing it full on.

\--Loved him.

Because that’s what it was—what it had to be. Only love could be so stupid: only love could have kept them both flying back into the same flame, endlessly singed wings.

Hannibal interrupted his thoughts by standing. He moved halting and slow--an awful contrast with his former grace—to his wheelchair several feet away. He looked up at Will only once he was secure and had regained his breath. “I will be content to live with the mystery, if you are. I tried to kill you: you tried to kill me. I believe the expression you used was ‘even Stephen’?” He rolled forward until he was beside the bed. “But we _will_ have to decide what’s to become of this second life Bedelia has given us. You once promised me a reckoning: we can have that however you like.”

Hannibal’s smile was at once charming and terrifying.

“We’ve had our moment in the blood and moonlight: it’s your decision if it’s to be the last.” Slowly, as if giving Will a chance to object, he reached out and laid his warm, firm hand atop Will’s. He let it sit there—one, two, three beats—before he pulled it away, fingertips gently trailing across the arch of Will’s hands, the length of his grasp.

Will’s hands felt naked and bereft in a way they never had, all negative space. The urge to reach back overwhelmed him, and, pushing his way from beneath the heavy lid of his mind, he did.

Hannibal’s eyes widened only slightly before he understood. They clasped hands there—one, two, three—resolutely _not_ looking at one another.

“We should have lamb tonight.”

“Moroccan stew.” Hannibal’s voice betrayed nothing of what had just passed between them. “In a few hours, perhaps, you would assist?”

Will nodded, occupying his frantic eyes and mind with the sketches and half-eaten bowl of soup on the table. A small, sodden ring haloed Bedelia’s face.

_Vite cor tuum_ , _indeed_.

When he looked up, Hannibal was already gone, and he felt able to breathe and think again—for whatever that was worth.

Increasingly, it seemed, not much.

He leaned over and took Hannibal’s unfinished soup. He pulled the bowl to his lips, aware of the lingering flavor of him along the rim.

He finished every last drop before he laid back, now unable to find the peace of sleep.

                     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pallas and the Centaur](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pallas_and_the_Centaur#/media/File:Pallasetlecentaure.jpg). I couldn't resist including this painting: I thought of it when they first introduced Primavera in the show. 
> 
> I do so enjoy writing Will and Hannibal just talking and lusting: I hope you enjoy reading it as well. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read, kudos, or comment!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal prepares lamb; Will considers love and murder and raisins.

**Chapter Six**

***************************

_Two weeks after the fall_

 

Will sat idle at the counter, relegated to audience as the true work of assembling, preparing, and plating began. His dicing had elicited only a nod this evening—an improvement over the tight-lipped disapproval his sous-cheffing usually earned. 

He poured himself another half-glass of wine: a reward for resisting the siren’s call of vicodin for the day. It was earthy and bitter, and each sip wended warm from his belly to the tips of his fingers. Far better than the detached haze of the drugs, the wine applied a filter to his mind, muted but still sharp. He hadn’t realized how much he needed a drink.

For a moment, as he raised the glass and watched Hannibal silhouetted across the counter, he saw it again; a bullet, shattered glass, a rush of maroon spray across the pale wood floor.  _I intend to watch him_ change _you._

He set the glass down, feeling the healing flesh of his face burn.

“I’ll be including apricots, I think.” Hannibal looked up at him as if this was a question.

He looked back, uncertain what the question might be.

“They should pair well with the cinnamon and lamb, and we’ll lose them to rot otherwise.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t object to apricots?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Excellent.” He pulled two of the fruits towards himself, reducing them to perfect slices with surgical efficiency. “I find apricots to be a surprisingly divisive ingredient. Only raisins have been more contentious.”

“You think _raisins_ are the most objectionable ingredient at your table?” Will said, glad to see Hannibal smile in response. The line between acceptable play and uncomfortable honesty was often hard to hit without tumbling straight over: in this case—perhaps thanks to the wine—Will chanced it. “You’ve fed me fricasseed entrails and offal tartlets and I shudder to think what else. Why start asking about raisins?”

“I imagine people have been eating entrails longer than raisins.”  He added slices of apricot to the roasting pan, selecting with care the dark nooks most in need of pink-orange flesh. The scent of herbs and tart sweetness blossomed, and Will salivated, no better than his totemic dog-self.

“Until now, you have been a guest at my table. Soon, perhaps, it will be your table as well.”

And he knew, all of the sudden, they were no longer talking about raisins.

He had dined at Hannibal’s table many times. They had eaten from the same dishes. They each found their familiar seats with ease. What was put before him, he tried, and often, truth be told, relished. But it had never been his full and honest choice to join Hannibal at the table—at _their_ table. Certainly not knowing what was on the menu.

But now…his mind drifted back to the long mahogany slab in the next room, and he felt stiff, as if it was grinding into his back once more, his heart the next course.

“And when we run out of the proper _ingredients_?”

“I am very capable of improvising with whatever and _whomever_ happens to be at hand.”

 “Could you ever go…vegetarian?”

The heavy sweet of roast lamb and cinnamon began to fill the room with the heady thickness of a sauna.   

“Would you ask me to? Ask a lion not to hunt?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Will watched him turning this idea in his mind, familiar with its facets, examining it like a worried, old blanket. “You know me, Will. You know what it is for me to hunt and to eat. And I know what it is for you.”

“After such a meal, you suffer indigestion. I feel something else.”

“Not always so. The Dragon was beautiful, was he not? On a different day we might have relived that beauty on fine bone china with a full-bodied Sangiovese.”

The picture sprang upon him: black streaks opalescent in the moon. The warmth of Hannibal, heaving, close. Euphoria that tasted like salt and iron and rightness.

“That was different.”

“Because of what he had done—or intended to do—to your family?”

He resolutely refused to think of Molly, stripped naked, shards of silver jammed into crimson-rimmed eyes.

The refusal had never worked before, and now was no exception. “Yes. And the other families.”

“Perhaps, then, that is our way forward: our shared hunting ground.”

Now Will looked up, meeting Hannibal’s glittering, hungry eyes at last. “Killers?”

“Killers, rapists, thieves. People who talk on their mobiles at the cash register.”

Will almost laughed, but then realized he wasn’t completely sure if that was a joke.

“You are the bloodhound,” Hannibal said. “Find me the scent of those who deserve to adorn our plates.”

Will leaned forward, resting his weight on the counter and considering this notion with whatever semblance of objectivity he had left to him. He knew that what Hannibal had said was true: it was the lesson the Dragon had taught him. It was _beautiful_ , or it could be. And it was a part of him, roots sunk deep into his heart and mind.

But it was only when the killing was just. When it was _righteous_. Simply thinking the word sparked a surge in his chest; the warning rattle of a sleeping serpent. The notion of leading demons into Hannibal’s abattoir warmed that inner beast like a rock in the sun. 

 “There are plenty of people in this wide world who would be improved by a tastefully chosen garnish and a skillfully selected wine.”

_It's the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good._  

Will had to admit the elegance of the solution. “A compromise.  Like the soup.”

“Like the soup.”

“My decision?”

“ _Our_ decision,” Hannibal corrected gently.

 “And you think that you will be able to abide the reins? Last I checked, lions weren’t too amenable to restraint.”

 “All wants must be weighed against one another: some are greater and must feed upon the lesser.”

Despite the sticky heat in the air, Will felt a shiver tickle down his spine. “And the greater want?”

 “This.”

Perhaps it was the fall, but Hannibal seemed to have emerged from their injury and silence with an even sharper ability to open the bone to the marrow. And that’s precisely how Will felt: as if he had been broken open and something was loosed, beyond his ability or desire to dam.

“Not just this. You want blood and moonlight as well.” A hiss from the oven was the only sound that existed for a short, deep moment.  “And I want it, too.”

Hannibal’s placid expression slipped, and, while no one else looking in would have considered the word, Will knew the change instantly. It was delight. 

“I am—pleased to hear it.” He leaned forward and took a tentative sip from Will’s glass, allowing their eyes to touch with an intensity they had not since just before the Dragon. “It is inconvenient, is it not?”

“Among other things.”

“The sort of thing that gets you locked in a cell for three years, using an aluminum-seated toilet in full view of passersby.”

“Or a colostomy bag for three months.”

He smiled, leonine teeth bared.  “In the marriage of godly and gut—of those parts that kiss and kill with equal ferocity and joy—love knows no half measures.”

The glass clinked down onto the counter as fragile as the word that now lay open between them.  _Love_.

As if transported back to his dream, Will felt his chest peeled open, heart beating against the hot, open air.

“If it is gentle love you want, Will, you should pick up that phone and go back to your life, if you can.” His voice had descended, almost to a growl, his features glinting as he leaned in even closer. “My love for you is not gentle, and my touch leaves scars.”

Hannibal was near now, his eyes sliding down the curve of Will’s face. Will was aware of his own breath as it mingled, close, and of Hannibal’s gaze on his lips. The air was hot and full of spice and for a moment he felt a surge, electric, that shocked the length of him. Unbidden, his mind flooded with remembered touch. The smooth slide of Hannibal’s cheek against his. The solid warmth of muscle and skin beneath him as they leaned into one another over the cliff’s edge. The trail of fingers along the arch of his hand. 

The length of their bodies pressed together as the life bled out of him, puddling red at their feet.

The final memory returned him to himself, sudden, and, without thinking, he pulled back.

The earth righted itself under his feet, and Hannibal’s face came into clear focus once more. He struggled to find words—to tug once more at the thread of conversation.

 “For God so loved the world…is that it?”

Hannibal did not miss a beat. “He gave more than His son. He gave Death to us all, so fiercely does He love.” He straightened, the counter standing sober between them once more. “Let us give Death together, Will. And live until that time when He comes for us.”

The room exploded with the screech of an elapsed timer. 

_Saved by the bell._

Hannibal turned without a word to tend to the lamb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sloooooow burn. I loves it. 
> 
> It has been awhile since I was able to post, but I have been writing--hopefully someone out there will still be reading :) I'm posting two chapters again, the next will be back to the more established Hannigram time...sort of. 
> 
> Thanks to anyone who is still along for this ride and to those who kudosed and commented!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will argue about the White Woman, and it isn't the first time they've disagreed about who to bring to the table.

**Chapter Seven**

***********************

_Five months after the fall_

 

He had learned, after several months of itinerant living, how to compact all of life’s needs into a single bag. It wasn’t too difficult for him: he had lived that way as a boy—everything shallow, rootless and temporary. The only things he truly missed were his fly tying equipment and his dogs, neither of which were particularly well-suited to this life. Someday, Hannibal said, they would settle and could consider rebuilding the niceties of their former selves. But he appeared to have learned that lesson from his time in Florence: trying to maintain a lifestyle of truffles and caviar _did_ leave a trail. And their trail was not nearly cold enough yet.

Hannibal had adjusted to the change with surprising ease. He had only one suit, which he had chanced purchasing a month earlier, and a few crisp pairs of slacks with button downs. Otherwise he kept only the basics: a straight razor, a tooth brush, a collection of knives lovingly gathered in a silk-lined roll. _Have murder will travel._

And now, for what seemed the hundredth time since the fall, they circled their room in silence, gathering what little bits of life had settled and clearing every trace of themselves from what had only just begun to feel like home.

“I found a hair in the sink.”

Will shrugged. “They’ll know we were here one way or another if they’re looking that close. Flakes of skin in the dust, the odd half-fingerprint on a lampshade or the toilet.”

“Or the headboard.”  Hannibal smiled. Somehow, whenever the chase pressed in upon them, he became ebullient. He _enjoyed_ the chase.

Will did not. “Should I start wearing latex gloves to bed, then?”

 “It could be…interesting.”

Will rolled his eyes and went back to rearranging his bag. His mood had changed: the White Woman had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. Her face as she closed the door, leering and yet guileless, still swam just behind his eyes. There was more to her and to what she said than even Hannibal was guessing. He sensed the something more, but he couldn’t see it.

“Where are we headed now?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

Hannibal was running a gloved finger over the edge of the nightstand. “Chiyoh has prepared several safe houses within a reasonable distance. I arranged for the purchase of train tickets to one of them several months ago. The tickets were for next week, but we can exchange them for the first train tomorrow morning.”

 “Warm weather? Cool weather?” Not that it mattered: Will’s wardrobe consisted of almost the same exact shirts and pants replicated across several muted colors.

“Warm, I should think.”

Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes without looking up. He kept his own resolutely on the task at hand.

“Should we talk about Miss Avinell now or would you like to wait until you’ve rearranged your belongings for the tenth time?”

Though he was tempted to snap back, he looked down at the rumpled, reshuffled contents of his bag and had to admit that he was obsessing. It was easier than thinking at the moment. “Talk, if that’s what you want.”

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed, removing his glove. “We’re going to have to take care of her before we leave. If she wasn’t sensible enough to run as soon as we were out the door, that is.”

He said nothing, choosing instead to make it an eleventh time.

“She knows, Will. I’m not sure which of our admirers may have hired her—“

“To be fair, we don’t know for certain that _anyone_ hired her. Besides, hired her to do _what_? Read tarot cards at us?”

“She’s a danger.”

“That’s possible.”

“And what are we going to do about that?”

Having gutted his bag once more, he couldn’t summon the strength to refill it. Instead he slumped down to the floor, back pressed against the bed beside Hannibal’s legs. “We’re going to run, Hannibal. That’s all we need to do.”

Somehow they had circled back to this point, caught in the same conversation again.

_He knows too much, Will. He is meant for the table._

Their plates had been emptied of beef bourguignon, their glasses alight with the shine of cognac and candlelight. Dr. Yettick had returned, he said, at Bedelia’s request, bringing a refill of meds and the antibiotic cream she’d insisted on for Will’s stitches. He had retired to a guest bedroom and could be heard snoring from three rooms away.

As soon as the man and his ratty simper had bid them goodnight, Will knew what was coming. He knew the thought circling Hannibal’s mind, stalking between them.

“Yettick? What about Dr. Du Maurier? I’d say she’s the bigger threat.”

“I have plans for Bedelia, but we are not ready for that, not yet.”

Will pushed a sprig of something saturated and brown across his plate. He felt more than ready for any plan that involved silencing that woman.

When he didn’t reply, Hannibal pressed. “A jackal may take down a lion if the lion keeps his back to danger.”

That, however, was his problem. On this issue, the beast within him slumbered still, unwilling to wake until the threat was certain. He could understand what Hannibal said: Yettick was precisely the sort of man who ought not be trusted with the secrets of their survival nor with any other particulars Bedelia had shared. He knew that killing the man would be the most expedient solution if they were to undertake the blood and moonlight travels Hannibal suggested.

But still the beast did not stir.

That didn’t stop Hannibal from poking it. “This may not be a righteous kill, Will, but it’s a necessary one.”

“There’s no proof. Need has nothing to do with it.”

“Need has everything to do with it.”

“You said this would be _our_ decision.” 

He heard his voice echoing in both places, the now and the then, scenery shuffled but Hannibal’s hungry presence held constant.

“And I say no: not if we don’t know that she is truly a danger to us.”

 Hannibal sighed. “Your principles are an albatross around my neck. Around both our necks, Will.”

“Killing the albatross was the big mistake, you might recall.” He attempted a half-smile and was glad to see it returned.

Shaking his head and with a half-formed chuckle, Hannibal reached out for Will’s cheek, tracing his cheekbone absently with his thumb. “’He prayeth best, who loveth best,’?” he sighed, then leaned down to lay the hint of a kiss on Will’s lips. For a moment, Will felt that familiar warm clutch in his gut and thought they might tumble headlong into it, but after a breath, Hannibal pulled back and allowed them both to smile at each other, enjoying it simply and fully.

He had smiled like that, then, too.

Will had been in the kitchen when he’d heard. It was very late—or early truly—and he’d woken from a nightmare, throat ragged with thirst. He’d dragged himself from bed, searching in the indistinct dark for a glass. At first it had seemed barely more than a feeling, but in the cloaked quiet of the house, he sensed two things: first, Yettick’s very distinctive snores had been silenced. And second—what he _could_ hear was a voice, low and hushed. He did not need to hear the words to know the tone. It spoke of secrets.

Barefoot and breath hitched, he took a knife from its block. Catching the meager patches of light for a moment, its length flashed silver as a slice of moon.

He found himself, once again, nearing the threshold. The guestroom. And the phone.

“—understand the danger. I—“

A murmur from the phone.

“I told you that wasn’t possible. She moved them. But if you can guarantee the price, I can--”

His grip on the knife had tightened, the beast raising its hackles, scenting the wind.

“We couldn’t keep them. I have a livelihood to maintain.”

In the shadowed space of that moment, he watched the pendulum clear its golden path through the night.

He would close the darkness between them in one, two, three strides. The knife would slide, easy and sure, through the back and then, surfacing wet, would trace with a savage hiss across the neck, leaving the man to clutch and flail, bathed in iron-scent and adrenaline. After several seconds of bloody mime-show, he could set the sole of his foot to the soft, separated hollow of the throat, and press down, squeezing the last, shuddering breath from his body in a pathetic rattle. _This is my design._

He took the first step— _one_ —then froze.

But this time, it wasn’t indecision that gave him pause. In the moment, the beast within him searched for something, for _someone_.  It howled for its brother: this was a meal to be shared.

By the time Yettick glanced over his shoulder, nervous, Will was gone.

In the grayscale patchwork of the bedroom, Hannibal was awake, looking out from his chair at the sickle moon. Hannibal woke easily and often, and Will wondered if his absence had been the cause.

 “I can feel you, Will. Power trembles off you in waves, a tide preparing to break in a torrent of heat and blood.”

Will moved behind him, and, without even a thought, set a hand on his shoulder. Somehow everything that had just passed need not be spoken. Hannibal understood without a word, the way two animals sniff one another and share intentions. “We have the moonlight.”

Clearly suppressing his pain as he unfolded from his seat, Hannibal met Will’s cool gaze with one of the purest affection. In what suddenly seemed so natural a gesture, he reached out, pushing a stray curl behind Will’s ear. “Our decision?”

Will nodded, holding out a second knife, pearl and steel sheen of its blade naked between them. “Our decision.”

The moon sparked wild in his eyes as he smiled.

That smile that Will felt stretch, warm, deep down, across his gut.

He felt it again now.

The beast within him snuffled, then rolled over, still unwilling to wake.

“You need your proof,” Hannibal said, turning back to Will’s emptied bag and beginning to refill it, taking time to fold and arrange each of the items with precision. “Then let us get it: we will return to Miss Avinell’s shop, if it is safe to do so. You can ask her yourself. Weigh her heart in your scales and see if her answers will spare her. I believe you will see what I see.”

Will remembered her, cool and opaque, and wondered what sort of answers they could hope to get. His mind turned her over once more, as crisp and flat as the tarot cards. _The Hermit. The Fool._

He swallowed, zipping his bag finally. _Death._

He wasn’t sure how, but he knew they would find her there. She would not run: she would be waiting for them. Their reading wasn’t finished.

 “To our answers, then.”

Hannibal simply nodded, retrieving his own bag and making for the door.

On the threshold, Will turned out the lights, flipping all the contours of the scene into darkness. It was always a little tough, pulling up the roots, and this time was no exception.

He turned, Hannibal already halfway down the hall, waiting for an elevator.

Each time they moved, he chose all over again: and this time, as always, he followed, closing the door on another dark and empty room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that mixing occurrences from both timelines wasn't too confusing here. I tried to describe it intercut like scenes from the show, but that's not always as easy to follow without the visuals :)
> 
> The albatross around our necks imagery/discussion is from _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ by Samuel Coleridge, as is the Hannibal's (tongue-in-cheek) quote: "He prayeth best, who loveth best/all things both great and small"
> 
> I'm so excited for the next few chapters: the slow burn is about to ignite properly and the real fun begins on all fronts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia checks in on Hannibal and Will's progress. Hannibal and Will do the dishes.

**Chapter Eight**

*********************************

_Three weeks after the fall_

 

It tugged at his insides suddenly, like stepping for a missing stair, and he was falling again, except this time, the height was greater. Below his feet clouds approached; above, he could not be sure, but he felt its radiance shrinking away, the hum of angels vibrating across the tuning fork of his skull.

As the shoal beneath him neared, what had been a dot of dark became a woman, shockingly black-haired, lips audacious red. It wasn’t until he was almost upon her that he recognized Alana, standing on the floor of cloud, arms outstretched as if to catch him. From her back, mighty wings stretched, and nestled in her hair, a ring of gold.

Her voice was plaintive, calling to him. An absurd contrast to her grace, he wiggled and flailed, trying to move closer, aiming for her. Just as he thought she might wrap him in her arms, she pulled back, looking pained, clasping hands to her chest and falling to the floor, droplets of cloud glittering as they scattered around her.

His feet pierced through, and he was falling still, clouds separating him from her and from that place he could recall only through its absence. Gray surrounded him now, empty and inert, even the hiss of wind silenced. His only sense of descent was another floor below, a large, square door opened up to darkness. The black square grew, slowly, until he could hear the sounds from beyond it, scratching, sighing, lamenting.

As it neared, so did the figure standing guard at its edge. Will recognized him, brow furrowed, face turned down intent on the darkness. He opened his mouth to call out to Jack, but there was no sound: only words flattened in gray air. Jack didn’t even lift his eyes as Will fell past, tumbling through the trapdoor into the black.

The dark scrabbled, wrapping him totally, pressing against his eyes and through into his mind. The sound of screams painted the air rushing past, though he couldn’t tell if he was hearing them or making them. The only light shone from below, flickering but fierce, the gold and auburn of flame.  Even from this distance, he could feel its heat warming his soles.

In a sickening reversal, flying up from the flame, she rose, singed but still magnificent, wings black. Two horns stood in the golden wake of her hair. As she flew past him, she paused a moment, darkness wrapped around her like a gown.

_We’re all making our way through the Inferno_ , she sighed, looking down, face glowing amber and seeming to smile.

Then she, too, was gone, flying up once more and out of sight.

Almost before he could understand what was happening, he was wrapped, maddeningly tight, in his arms. He had hurtled down from above, the glorious Morning Star, silver wings and blazing eyes. He smelled of roses and fire, and his touch filled Will with the sense of being laid out—of release. The presence of him, enveloping, brought Will to the edge of something divine.

It was greater than what was lost, the height from which he’d fallen.

And suddenly the screams were transmuted to song, a chorus singing them home.

_The Devil has all the best tunes_ , Will whispered, laying his head on the dark angel’s chest.

He smiled as he turned them head over heels, leaning into the fall.

The fire swelled until it was the pure white of light, stabbing his overwrought eyes.  Behind it, there was a hint of blue, terribly out of place.

It wasn’t until he saw the streak of a bird that he knew with certainty where he was again.

He lifted his head, damp coating his neck and pillow. As suddenly as in the dream, he was aware of the other man, arms splayed so near that for a panicked, unfocused moment he worried that he might have reached out for Hannibal unknowing, caught in the drama of half-sleep.

If he had, Hannibal was undisturbed, sleeping soundless and serene.  He forced himself to lie still, taking in the unconscious tableau beside him. Lying close, the tiny hitch and release of the other man’s breath was audible, a sound surely too small and plebian.

It had been more than a week since Will had, stilted and with too much blinking, offered Hannibal the other half of the bed. They had eaten lamb and used the L-word: it seemed disingenuous to keep the slumber party arrangements. There was nothing more said. Each night they lay, side-by-side, and after the space of a few held breaths, Hannibal would wish him good night, roll over, and fall into the quiet rhythm Will now admired. 

And Will would lie all too aware of every inch of space dividing them and every curve of the bed beneath him.

The small breaths slowed and stopped. Will was sure to look away.

Hannibal’s eyes opened all at once, giving the distinct impression of never having been asleep at all. “You have a distinct smell when you’re sleeping,” he said, half a yawn. “It’s different—more piquant perhaps. I’d noticed it bringing you breakfast before, but I had no idea it was a regular occurrence. Nature’s alarm clock.”

“It’s the sweat. Ever since puberty hit…what can I say.”

“It’s a musk: hormonal, I would guess. Smells of the hunt on a spring morning.”

Occasionally, Will got the distinct impression that Hannibal was actively trying to force a blush. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction—if he could help it. “No hormonal morning smells for you, then? I’m afraid I haven’t been analyzing every whiff.”

“Now that I can’t say. Bedelia—any insight into my scent?”

It wasn’t until he heard the name that the tickle of spice registered. She stood in the doorway, leaning lightly on the jamb, observing them with unconcealed interest.

The clatter of her heels seemed inappropriate in the soft of early morning; the tasteful cut of her dress threw the tatty gray of his boxers into sharp relief.  “I would say you have a very consistent scent, Hannibal. Clean and sharp, like a night-blooming flower.” The phrase sounded romantic, but there was something aggressively _un_ romantic in the way she said it, like a teacher reading poetry aloud to her dozing class.

“And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure?”  Hannibal asked as he sat up, revealing his bare, bandaged torso.

Will watched Bedelia’s eyes slide up and down its length as if fondly examining a picture in an album, recalling a place visited. “I’m afraid the FBI has been poking around the last few weeks. The situation at St. Jude’s is only now secure enough to absent myself and assess your progress. You both look--“ Her eyes drifted to Will, who pulled the blanket up a bit higher. “—Hale.” 

Hannibal demanded her eyes again with his, unflinching and intense. Will did not have to look: the flutter of fear on her parted lips and the slight flare of her nostrils were an inverse mirror. Hannibal had stuck her, no better than a butterfly opened wing to wing on silver pins.

“It was brave of you to return, Bedelia.”

“You keep your promises.” Her voice was implausibly small.

“I do, indeed. Your timing is fortuitous: I was just considering the notion of a rather elaborate breakfast.” And just like that, Hannibal allowed the tension to melt from him, smiling. “Could I interest in you in a torte salame?”

“That would be lovely.” Unslinging a bag from her shoulder, her steps towards the bed seemed clipped with relief. “Before you disappear to the kitchen, however, I would like to satisfy myself that I’ve kept _my_ promises as well. Perhaps you would allow me…?”

Before Will knew what to do, she was sitting on the edge of the bed nearest Hannibal, and he, with a slight nod, laid back to afford her a better view.

Will’s mouth went dry.

“You’ve been changing the bandages regularly, I trust.” Taking a corner of the bandage, she tore it away. Hannibal hissed and, ever the empath, Will did too. The side of Bedelia’s mouth quirked.

“At least once a day. Sterilized. No signs of sepsis, no heat or surface tenderness. It itches with the promise of recovery.”

“No stomach pains, dizziness, changes in digestion?”

“None.”

Will hadn’t seen Hannibal’s wound since they tumbled into the sea: he had insisted on changing his own bandages and tending to it himself. The stitches had knit a small enough hole, but hidden beneath the bandage, the skin was mottled blue and purple, silver and green, a hunk of nacre stretching from his ribs down to his hip and below. As he watched Bedelia’s fingers trace the wound, pausing to palpate and punctuated by the sound of Hannibal’s indrawn breath, he wondered if his scent was obvious to them both.

Will snapped his eyes away, shifting uncomfortably and trying to think of anything else. Anything besides how often she had done this before and how much he wanted to, in that very moment, grab her wrist and separate her hand with a wickedly sharp meat cleaver.He kept his focus, resolute, on the clean line where the top of the window met the ceiling, tracing it painstakingly to each corner and back.

“An impressive recovery. Miraculous, some might say.”

“All that clean living . And, excellent care, of course,” Hannibal said lightly, standing and giving her a polite bow. “Biscotto and coffee, _mia signora_?”

 “I should also examine Mr. Graham as well, if he will consent.”

Unbidden, Hannibal’s sketch came to mind: Bedelia’s hands coiled in his hair, a look of horror on his face.

“By all means.”

He heard rather that saw Hannibal leave.

“Judging by the chaste aversion of eyes, I’ll assume you and Hannibal remain… _unknown_ to one another.”

“In the Biblical sense.”

“In many senses.”

“And _you_ know Hannibal in many senses?”

“In the Biblical sense.”

Allowing  that to hang in the air, she stood, rounding the bed, giving the distinct impression of a shark circling, all hidden teeth and flat, pale eyes. He felt unusually helpless, naked and dangling on a hook.

“Memory has a way of reducing moments to their most stylized essence, shaping and inserting poetry where the bluntness of instinct wrought crude edges.” _Click click click._ “I often think back to the night I boarded the plane with Hannibal: the night of your visceral embrace.” As she sat on the bed in front of him, she regarded the scar that traversed his belly.  “I expect, with each remembering, to find the moment re-shaped, improved with a logic or a romance I can understand. A storyline I can imagine.”

“Can’t fill that particular plot hole, Bedelia?”

“It remains fossilized, each capricious detail imprinted just as it was--the spiny, unappealing trilobite of my Ego.” Her eyes met his, searching. “Do you know what was going through my mind?”

“I’m not sure I want a peek inside that box.”

“Even with years of prudence and learning and psychology brimming in my mind, ready to be tapped, ready to be pressed into practice…all I could think in that moment before I laid down my gun and let fate take its course was: ‘What the hell, Bedelia. Why not find out.’”

Seeing his face fall, she merely smiled. “That’s what you need, Mr. Graham. You need a little more ‘what the hell’ in your life.”

With that she gestured towards his bandaged shoulder, and, warily, he leaned forward, allowing her to move behind him and inspect it.

“’Gather ye rosebuds’, Dr. Du Maurier?” he hissed, as she lifted the gauze for a closer look.

“It’s not titled _To the Virgins_ for nothing.”

“You seem awfully eager for me to engage with a man whose attention you once called ‘profoundly harmful’ to me.”

“I also recall noting that you found it irresistible.”

A chill wiped across his shoulder as she applied some type of balm. It burned, oddly soothing, though he fought the urge to relax.

“And yet, you _are_ resisting.” Delicately, she wrapped her hand around his elbow and urged it higher, feeling the bones of his shoulder slide and jostle with her other hand. “The two of you have delighted in the flesh of man and courted one another through the intimacy of the graveyard. You have embraced as foreplay to murder and yet—“  She pushed his arm down faster than he expected, and he groaned. “You shrink away from a little peck on the lips.”

 He pulled out of her grasp. “Forgive me if the idea of loving a man who has done nothing but try to kill me for years is a tad…complicated.”

“He might as well have written you a sonnet.” She withdrew from his shoulder, raising her hands to hover above his cheek. Her skin radiated warmth in the way ice burns when pressed to flesh. “How else was he supposed to be sure of you? To be sure that you were different from the rest of us, whom he can make and unmake like God?”

She prodded the pink shadow where his sutures had been and he felt, for a moment, the absurd impression that his face might fracture, falling to pieces.

“Open your mouth if you please.”

His mind was so busy with her words, he didn’t object. She pierced his mouth with the bright, narrow beam of a penlight, examining.

“You know that he loves you. You’ve known it for some time, even if you couldn’t bring your tongue to shape reality into that four-letter word. You _used_ that love, betrayed it. You trailed him, found him, returned and returned to him.”

He felt as if the penlight skewered his skull.

“You followed him all the way through the gates of Hell, and now you’re worried about getting a little soot on your shoe.” The light clicked off. “You can close your mouth.”

He rubbed at his aching jaw. “Only if you’ll return the favor.”

She replaced the penlight and the balm in her bag, snapping it shut as if he’d said nothing at all. “Hannibal was right: your cheek might be infected. Dr. Yettick or I will return with antibiotic cream later this week. I’m sure it’s best to…play it safe.”She stood, looking down the thin line of her nose. “If I were you, Mr. Graham, I would want to know.”

_This should be good._ “What’s that, Doctor?”

“If there can be passion outside the slaughterhouse. Or if your love will always require blood and fury to bind it.”

The words filled him with a sick emptiness—the hollow of a rung bell. She had a way of striking him like that, at just the right frequency to make him toll.

“And if it does? If death is the only thing that holds our little teacup together?”

“Then perhaps I’d prefer Dr. Yettick bring you your…remedy.” She smiled. “We should get to breakfast: I’ll need to leave for St. Jude’s in no more than an hour, and Hannibal does prefer a certain measured pace to his meals.”

“Not staying for dinner?” He gathered the sheets around himself as he stood, glad to be looking down on her for a change. 

“No, Mr. Graham,” she sighed, turning for the door, heels clicking with contempt. “Unlike you, when it comes to Hannibal, I am _very_ certain just how thin the veil between love and death can be.”

 

**********************

Will enjoyed washing the dishes. There was something about the hot water on his skin and the white noise of the tap and the simple effort of scrubbing that relaxed him. There was a satisfaction to restoring equilibrium—clearing away the grubby remains of a meal eaten and enjoyed. There was also something to be said for finding routine amid the chaos of the current.

And so, glass emptied and meal finished, he pushed in his chair and carried an armful of dishes to the sink. Hannibal trailed after, towel in hand. It had become a fixture of each evening, slid neatly between dessert and digestif.

Usually they worked in glutted silence, tongues still heavy from food and drink. But tonight he found himself unable to exist in that easy space. The morning’s conversation had set him off balance. Rather than relaxing, the quiet wound his muscles tighter and tighter.

“Bedelia said she or Yettick would be back later this week with something for my cheek,” he said at last, unable to steady himself in the silence.

“Bedelia won’t be back.”

He considered that a moment, and the certainty with which Hannibal said it. “That’s how she keeps from getting her hair mussed, isn’t it? She knows just when to make her exit.”

“The height of good manners is knowing when to leave.” 

Will’s grip on the plate he was scrubbing slipped, and he scrambled slightly, able to catch it before it landed back in the sink.

“The twitches and strains of the body often betray those of the mind.”

“I _am_ feeling a bit twitchy.”

“Would this have anything to do with Dr. Du Maurier?”

“Her words have an annoying habit of sticking around long after her well-timed exit.”

“An admirable quality…to a point. What words are echoing now?”

_You followed him through the gates of Hell and now you’re worried about getting a little soot on your shoe._

He swallowed, scrubbing the plate he held a little harder than necessary. “What were you planning to do after the Dragon?”

Hannibal paused.

“If I hadn’t thrown us off the cliff, I mean: what was your plan?”

He resumed polishing a glass without looking up. “What do you think I was planning?”

“Let’s please retire the psychiatry shtick.”

Hannibal smiled but did not respond.

“Tell me this, then: were you planning to kill me?”

“I assumed you were planning to kill _me_.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Not all questions have answers. Some questions are merely signposts marking that liminal space where our understanding ends and our Id ranges free.”

There was a long pause filled only with the constant hiss of water and the tiny scraping of china, before Hannibal continued. “In that time and place, Will, I had no true intention beyond sharing the hunt. It was the culmination of all I had dreamt since the day I watched you lay ten bullets into Garrett Jacob Hobbs. I wasn’t thinking beyond.”

It was Will’s body rather than his mind that remembered now. He felt the fireworks of adrenaline pumping from his heart, just as they had then, the breath of the tide replaced by the thin exhale of the tap.

Unable to keep a firm hold on anything, he put the dishes aside. “Why? Why was _that_ your dream for me?”

Though he was watching Hannibal intently, Hannibal didn’t look up from the glass in his hands. “In the times when paper was rare, scribes and scholars often scraped clean used parchment for reuse. The Medieval Christians were particularly fond of this method. They would take centuries-old scholarly works and scrape them clean to copy Bible pages. “

“Palimpsests, yes,” Will sighed, picking up the dishes again, wondering why he had expected a direct answer to a question like that. Direct wasn’t usually Hannibal’s rhetorical style: he preferred a little more filigree.

“In 13th century Jerusalem, a Christian monk did just that: took an old Greek manuscript, scraped it, and copied a prayer book complete with gold-leaf and illuminations. Lovely, to be sure: art anyone could appreciate. To all the world, it would have seemed an improvement over the dry, pictureless ink of the ancients. The problem was that, in his ignorance, the monk had scraped away a text written by Archimedes, one of the greatest mathematical geniuses to have ever lived. In that text, Archimedes outlined integral calculus--a discipline that would not be conceived of again for another two thousand years. Those secrets lay hidden beneath florid illustration for centuries until a careful scholar subjected the book to x-ray and infrared and the truth of it was revealed. Who knows where humanity might be now if that text had been treasured and read for what it was instead of made more pleasing.”

Will looked up and caught the small smile playing across Hannibal’s lips. It wasn’t often that he could watch Hannibal without being watched back, but in this moment, the other man was clearly lost in his  words, his features suffused with rare softness, an earnestness that overlaid his sharp features like chiaroscuro. _He looks beautiful this way_ , Will found himself thinking, and then, carefully _not_ thinking.

 “The Will Graham I met in Jack Crawford’s office had been hastily obscured with the ink and gold-leaf of the world. But beneath, in the fluorescence of the crime scene, the truth of you could not be hidden. It was a text written in a language that spoke to me--an ode I have read on the scraped parchment of myself.”

_Beautiful._

Will swallowed down the thought again. “I _was_ planning to kill you.”

“I noticed.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

Hannibal looked up, amused. “Should it?”

“It bothers me, I suppose.”

He shrugged, picking up a dripping porcelain bowl. “Some love is beautiful, light and bright. Some leaves a trail of blood and screams. No need to cover over any of those ugly variables on my account.”

With a jolt, the toll of Bedelia sounded. _That’s what you need, Mr. Graham. You need a little more ‘what the hell’ in your life._

Even before the words had fully formed in his mind, he’d taken Hannibal by the wrist, bowl careening to the floor in a fine white mist. With the force of a fire lit inside, he pressed the other man’s body against the wall slowly, feeling it solid beneath as his own pushed close. He ached for a taste, pressing their lips together with a sigh, invading Hannibal’s mouth, searching. A quiet moan unrolled from him as he took Hannibal’s lower lip between his, soft at first, and then reckless, with the brush of teeth on tender flesh. His hands, still wrapped around Hannibal’s wrist, twisted. He would find bruises blooming there, he knew, a glorious pink and green memento. 

When he surfaced for air, he found his own desperation mirrored, Hannibal’s eyes clouded, breath ragged.

The dish crunched underfoot as he stepped away. “I don’t think that will be coming back together.”

“Entropy is a constant,” Hannibal panted, tongue darting out to clean a spot of blood from his lower lip. Will didn’t know nor care whose it was. He found himself leaning close again, lapping at it, the iron salt sliding between them as he dove once more, parting Hannibal’s lips as if in search of a pearl.

In the span of a less than a breath, he felt Hannibal shift beneath him, and, a blur of muscle and force found him pinioned. He had no time to register surprise or panic, Hannibal’s lips tracing the line of his jaw, breath hot on his neck. The helpless, pathetic sound this elicited might have embarrassed him if he had heard it over the rush and thrum of his pulse.

“I might have lied when I said I had no intentions beyond the hunt.” Hannibal’s voice was low. His lips tickled the bowl of Will’s ear. “I have dreamt as well of tasting you—though I admit the how may have changed with time.”

Hannibal’s hand found his waist, firm yet reverent. Overcome, the heat of Hannibal’s mouth in one ear and the pinch of Hannibal’s grip on his hip, Will felt himself unravel, prepared to abandon all hope and allow himself to be guided through the gates.

When Hannibal stepped back, releasing him, he threatened to collapse to the floor, his own will gone from him.

“Do you still want to kill me, Will?”

He looked into Hannibal’s eyes sparking with lust. His hair was ruffled, his cheeks colored. The red bloom of blood slicked his lips. He could so easily imagine his hands circling Hannibal’s neck, pressing, collapsing. Hannibal’s mouth open, muscles seizing, eyes bulging and bright. _Beautiful._

“I want…a lot of things.” It was all he could manage.

Hannibal smiled, pushing a curl from Will’s face. He traced the ball of his thumb lightly over Will’s lips, hands warm, before he leaned in. It was the merest idea of a kiss: a brush, a touch, a hint of breath.

_That answers that question, Dr. Du Maurier._ Without blood or violence, that tiny ghost of a kiss filled him with a want greater than any he’d ever felt.

Hannibal walked away, tiny shards of a dish that hadn’t come together underfoot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fun writing this chapter: this interaction with Bedelia was one of the first I imagined when this fic took shape in my head, and it was nice getting to chisel away at it. I also adore writing dream sequences, so this was an all around good time. Plus, you know, the kissing. Always the kissing.
> 
> Random allusions, because that's always fun: 
> 
> Bedelia and Will refer to the oft-quoted and sort of cloying poem [ To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/virgins-make-much-time). 
> 
> The palimpsest Hannibal mentions is the [Archimedes Palimpsest](http://www.archimedespalimpsest.org/), which is both lovely as a metaphor as well as being really fascinating in and of itself.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who continues to read my attempt to fill the Season 4 void. Your comments and kudos give me strength :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will share the hunt and something more. Hannibal reveals the next part of his plan.

**Chapter 9**

****************************

_One month after the fall_

 

He saw it again in his dreams: the way the body tensed then collapsed at the first trail of the knife.  The blood wasn’t _so_ much, but the effect was as intended. Sliced up the Achilles and calf, Yettick had buckled, a satisfying, half-swallowed cry all he could manage before Will settled a knee on his chest.

His lips had kept moving, forming the shell of words. Will imagined them now as _please_ and _don’t_ and _not my idea_. It had been in just such a moment that Hannibal had wrenched the man’s mouth open, holding his tongue out as if loosening the string on a package. Though the knife was sharp, it still required sawing to separate it totally. Hannibal had produced a sheet of brown butcher paper and wrapped the tongue with care. The choked gush of screams filled the air.

“Forgive our intrusion, Doctor,” Hannibal said after the screams had fallen into a wheeze.  “I’m afraid Dr. Du Maurier may not have been entirely honest with you about us. Or about herself, for that matter.”

Yettick had only been able to shake his head.

“I would ask to whom you’ve sold us but…”

More shapeless gurgles as Will flipped the flailing man onto his stomach, slicing through the back of his shirt to expose the pale, unappealing stretch of skin beneath.

Will had looked up at Hannibal, and more than their eyes connected.

Will made the first cut, straight and deep, starting at the slight hump where neck met back. He traced the length of spine, watching in awe as the body before him opened up, unraveling into skin and blood and muscle. The air vibrated, seeming to strain under the weight of scent and scream. The white of vertebrae glittered in dwindling moonlight. Just as he finished pushing the two halves of Yettick apart, he felt the life rush away, the seizing and struggling quieted. The room exhaled.

Will collapsed on the floor, overcome with that molten rush that accompanies the production of death.

Hannibal continued where Will stopped, actions more assured, more refined. He worked below the skin, loosening, until a large section of spine could be pried slightly outwards. He pulled at it, stripping away a slick, stringy roll of nerves and bending the bone sickeningly upward as if peeling back the lid of a tin can. Something in the dark transformed him, and he was an angel ringed in quicksilver, face a knife-sharp study in control.  

It wasn’t until he stepped back that Will saw Hannibal’s intent. The body now had an exaggerated arch, humped back with a length of spine and nerve loose like a tail.  A trick of the light, the pale strings of Yettick’s hair had clumped like gilded horns. As he lifted the corpse’s dangling head, knife ready at the neck, Will saw it as the ancients must have: the gore and divinity of the taurobolium.

The sticky heat of blood slid over him entire, dripping into the crooks of his arms and slithering in tiny rivulets between his curls. It rushed over his ears and kissed down his neck. Hannibal had wanted to see him reborn in blood, here, together. Purified like a soldier—or a bride.

“Hannibal.” His voice had been raw and red and full of want.

 The other man looked down at him, face clear save for a light spray across one cheek. In the just-cresting sun that trickled in, the blood was beginning to redden again, iridescent down the length of his neck. Will was overwhelmed by the need to lick it clean.

He woke suddenly.

Hannibal lay awake beside him.

For a long moment, they looked at one another. Will could almost see the same events replaying in Hannibal’s mind, a ghost across his eyes.

“Good morning.” Will’s voice sounded as tentative as he felt. Bits of the night kept coming back to him, lapping back into his mind like a rising tide.

“It’s afternoon now. We’ve slept the day away.”

“It was a…long night.”

Hannibal’s expression was expertly managed, ever the psychoanalyst, even laying in bed beside each other. “Did you dream of it?”

He swallowed, feeling like a school boy caught out. “Yes. 

“The death or—“

“The death. Or rather the _rebirth_.”

“All new life is heralded with blood and screams. Do you feel born anew?”

“I imagine rebirth feels lighter than this. I feel heavy. Indolent.”

“Perhaps yours is not a rebirth. Perhaps you are the emerging moth: you feel heavier because you are _more_. ”

“I still feel…“

The pause lasted long enough for Hannibal to suggest an answer. “Regret?”

Will didn’t want to think about it. So many things had happened last night, piled atop one another in a dizzying succession of pain and pleasure and guilt and freedom. He was not yet ready to bring them each into the pin-sharp focus of Dr. Lecter’s analysis. “The jagged gaps where regret should be.”

 “And what came after?” The question was heartlessly matter-of-fact: if Hannibal was feeling any of the same uncertainty he did, it didn’t show.

The remembered touch of Hannibal’s hands sliding over his back and through his hair shook him for the space of a breath.

 “N-no. Unless you--”

“No.”

He’d let Hannibal lead him, trailing ichor, to the master bath.

The water hissed and steamed, pristine white towel laid like a veil along the counter. With nothing more than a chaste hand on Will’s back to guide him, Hannibal had turned to leave.

Almost unaware, caught in the blur of adrenaline and the slip of blood down his cheeks, Will had found Hannibal’s mouth with his own, soft at first and then desperate. “Don’t. Go. Please,” he’d managed, in the short, breathy seconds where his lips were only his.

Hannibal’s growl shook the length of his body, a great pressure released. By the time Hannibal set him down, rough, in the shower, Will had disappeared into the rhythm of their kiss, undulating, sweating relentless.

Warm water caressed ever more skin as Hannibal peeled away each sodden layer. Will held Hannibal’s shoulder in one hand, the back of his neck in the other. Thoughts and disbelief occasionally threatened to surface, but he smothered them down beneath Hannibal’s lips.

Somewhere in that jumble of moments they’d found themselves pressed together, spray pouring over them, cool tile behind his back. He clutched at Hannibal, wanting to hold every part of him, wanting to release the fierce heat that had been building to burst. Hannibal was solid and perfect beneath his hands, and he remembered, in fragments, the wet grip of the fall. That tangle Chiyoh had raked from the sea come together again.

Hannibal had pulled away and found Will’s eyes, searching for an answer.

The only answer Will had for anything and everything that Hannibal could ask in that moment was _yes._ Yes. Yes. Yes.

And his lips formed the shape of that word as Hannibal slid down to his knees, mouth leaving a warm trail ever downwards.

 “That smell will drive me to distraction.” Hannibal’s voice brought him back to the bed.

It felt absurd to blush after the night they’d just had. “I’m feeling more than a little distracted myself at the moment. It all feels—insubstantial. Like a dream.”

With the gentle danger of a snake sliding circles around its prey, Hannibal’s hand caressed his neck, coming to rest lightly at the base of his throat. “Do you fear or long to wake?”

The only answer he could find was the hollow hint of a kiss before he dragged himself, heavy and uncertain, to the shower once more.

 

*********************

The heaviness didn’t subside. He had to drag himself out of the shower long after Hannibal had already disappeared to the kitchen.  Though the shower refreshed him, it inspired new feelings as well now: memories which set him on edge. He stood for a long while under the water, remembering, forecasting, trying to imagine what the next day would look like. And the next. What a life with Hannibal could be. What a life _loving_ Hannibal could be.

When he finally made it to the kitchen, Hannibal was sitting at the small round table, sipping a glass of orange juice and eating. The smell of eggs seemed out of place in the sideways slide of early evening light.

“Breakfast for dinner?”

Hannibal paused a moment before replying, a hint of what might have been grief blinking in and out quickly. “Protein scramble.”

He sat down at his still-steaming plate. It looked just as it had then, as he’d hunched over a motel table, wishing this man would leave him be. The distance between the two moments overwhelmed him, and he sat back, unable to pick up his fork. “This time I know to ask: what sort of protein?”

“Egg, sausage… shaved tongue.”

He couldn’t help but see the ghost of Yettick’s face, mouthing soundless words, eyes shrink-wrapped with tears.

Hannibal must have seen it in his expression: he crossed to the stove and carried back a second plate. These eggs were mixed only with bell peppers, green onions, and several herbs he couldn’t identify.

“Thank you.”

Hannibal merely nodded as Will took his fork to the tongueless option.  “We need to consider relocating. It’s entirely possible Yettick alerted someone to our whereabouts. I didn’t exactly hear him giving out the address, but anyone with half a brain would know to check his real estate.”

“I agree. We are well enough now to travel, and I believe we’ve worn out our welcome under Dr. Du Maurier’s care.”

“I assume you have some thoughts on how and where?”

“Yettick will have a car. I’m guessing he won’t mind if we borrow it.”

 “Where are we going?” Will asked.

“Why do you assume I know?”

“You’re not really the _On the Road_ type. You have a destination in mind.”

 “There are several possibilities, depending on how we find the situation out in the world.”

“You mean how many people are looking for us and what kinds of bounties we’ve got on our heads?”

“Among other things.”

“Do I get to know these _possibilities_?”

“Do you want to?”

He stopped for a moment, sipping his coffee and wondering the same thing. Trying to sketch out their future now, he had drawn only shadows. He could understand it in fits and starts, abstract, the way you can know something but not remember what it’s called. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the full weight of the fugitive life just yet, but he also wouldn’t make the mistake of letting Hannibal be his paddle again. While his brain reeled with heat, he could no longer claim encephalitis. He had to try, at least, to be present and aware and make his own choices.

“Yes. And no. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Will, I meant it when I said I wanted you at my table. If you want to know the contingencies and counter-contingencies and emergency backups, I will tell you. I will give you a list of safe houses and people with whom I have certain arrangements. I was merely hoping to spare you the added…tension.”

Seeing the insistent concern in Hannibal’s face, he was transported again to that former breakfast.

_I don’t find you that interesting._

He’d looked at him with such goddamned certainty, as if he had cast into to the future and seen them sitting here at this very moment. Seen the way Will was looking at him now.

_You will._

Slow and deliberate, Will lifted his fork and took a small piece of sausage onto it.

Hannibal might have purred with contentment as he watched Will chew and swallow.

“Well, I can tell you the first part of the plan. You can let me know if you agree. We’ll decide from there.”

“Fair enough.”

To his surprise, Hannibal stood and gestured to the hallway.

In the guestroom, shadows blanketed the contours of the furniture like dustcovers, everything reduced to black and gray by the setting sun. Even so, he could make out a shape on the bed, a series of indistinct curves, pulsing, rhythmic, in the still of the room.

It wasn’t until just before Hannibal flipped the lights that he recognized the scent of Chanel.

The light thrown open he saw her, bound and gagged, eyes closed but breath steady. Even splayed unconscious across the bed, she looked perfectly coiffed, pale skin set off by the slate color of her jacquard dress.

A sudden jolt crackled through his chest, shocking every bit of heaviness from him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly and unaccountably dry. “Do you intend to keep your promise?”

Hannibal smiled. “To a point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bedelia: these boys have some surprises in store for her.
> 
> I hope I haven't lost too many people in the build to these last chapters. Only three chapters after this one, but they are big ones. 
> 
> The [taurobolium](http://www.eonimages.com/media/40d0384c-3d6e-11e0-a6eb-b58c02a2c4d9-roman-ceremony-taurobolium) is an ancient ritual in which a bull was led over a person seeking some boon or purification. The bull's neck was cut and the person below was covered in blood. Beautiful and sick in a Hannibal sort of way.
> 
> Thank you to anyone out there who might still be with me: your kudos and comments are appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will return to the White Woman to get answers.

**Chapter 10**

************************

 

_Five months after the fall_

Hannibal was being cautious, and, when in that state, he withdrew into silence, stalking. They watched for almost an hour to see if anyone came or went. They inspected possible stakeout locations and walked the surrounding blocks, looking for the suspicious. Or the conspicuously _not_ suspicious.  Everything seemed just as it should for that dead, late hour.

Her storefront was shuttered, and the front door bolted shut. The back door opened easily, however, and, as he had expected, they found the White Woman sitting at the same round table. The dim room was candle-lit now, uneven and shifting.  As they entered, she watched, eyes impassive.

She had simply stayed. And waited. _Unsettling_.

 “Miss Avinell. Good evening.”

“And to you.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see us again,” Hannibal noted.

“I was hoping you’d be back.”

 “Hope can be a bitter sauce.”

“I knew _you_ would have questions.” She turned her eyes toward Will with a brittle smile. As before, she looked just past him.

_“_ I do.”

“Answers can be just as bitter.”

Hearing this, Will felt suddenly weary, as if he spied the long path stretching ahead of them all, feet aching but miles yet to go. Truth be told, he didn’t want a fight tonight. He didn’t want anything more than to board the train out of town and not look back. But their life couldn’t be all fine dining, hotel rooms, and leisure. This—the vigilant watch—went hand-in-hand with every moment of freedom.

Sighing, he took a seat at the table. “Let’s hope not—for all our sakes.”

“I also suggest you think carefully before discharging the firearm you have under the table.” Hannibal stepped forward, wrapping his hands around the back of a chair.

Unlike with Will, she had no trouble meeting Hannibal’s gaze.

 And he took advantage of it. “Are you working for Jack Crawford?”

The question etched her half-smile deeper. “Straight to business, then.”

 “The Verger matriarchs?”

As if catching the strain of another conversation, she looked at a spot between them. The empty air held her attention just long enough that Will felt the need to turn and look. There was only candlelight and shadow.

 “I work for myself. And for the dead.”

As she said this, Hannibal glanced at Will as if to say _See?_

 “For the dead?” Will asked.

“Yes. It isn’t a service I often perform, but in this case, I’ve made an exception.”

“What service would that be?”

“That of a voice.” She gestured out to the vacant, shaking dark of the room. “Few follow you. But you—“  She turned to Hannibal. “I have never seen such a terrible procession. A cloud of lost souls.”

 “I’ve always found the dead to be rather terse,” Will said with more lightness than he felt.

“Most are. Especially those long gone. But a few...”  When her gaze did fully touch Will’s, he felt it slither through to the back of his skull. “Your mind is a cracked door. I imagine you hear them when you sleep.”

For a split second, the whisper of a voice hissed through him. He turned to look at Hannibal, trying to gauge if he had heard it, too. All he found was the question writ large across Hannibal’s face: _Is it enough?_  

But it wasn’t enough yet. Clearly she knew something more than she should: Hannibal had been right about that. And, somewhere in the blackened backroom of his mind, he knew that meant this story might end with blood and screams. But right now he was more interested in solving the mystery of who this woman was and _how_ she knew so much.

 “Who follows me exactly?”

Her eyes scanned the space behind him. “A vicious man with an empty smile. A quiet, feral-eyed man.  A crooked man. And—a man who follows you both. With great red wings.”

Hannibal scoffed. “No names?”

 “The dead have no need of names.”

Will didn’t need to hear their names: he knew them with uncanny immediacy. _Hobbs. Tier. Yettick. Dolarhyde._

“And what do the dead have to say? I’m guessing they don’t want to chat about the weather.”

“Some lament. Others rage. One—she is striped. Meridians of blood, almost beautiful. She says that she gave so much to--” The White Woman hesitated a moment, seeming to listen. “So much to prove you were innocent. And now she knows: she was wrong.”

_Beverly._

“Even when she was right, she was wrong.” The White Woman barely paused before she indicated the seat beside him. “And another. _She_ simply wants to say she’s sorry. And ask why.”

The room was suddenly cold, and he heard the sound of his breath in an all-too animal way.

_Abigail._

“Unspeakably vulgar. Will?” Disdain was thick in Hannibal’s voice.

But he wasn’t listening. Just like that, as the White Woman spoke, he saw her again, sitting beside him, just as he had in those days after…

His gut ached.

 “She says it’s cold now, where she is. She didn’t expect that, to feel cold. Or to feel anything, she says.”

“Will, this is beginning to verge on the absurd.”

He agreed; nevertheless, he was staring into Abigail’s face for the first time in more than four years. She didn’t smile at him now, though: he missed that. She had usually smiled at him, even if it was a wan, mournful thing. Her neck was ringed, angry and red, and her eyes were a glassy distance that looked just past him.  Her cheeks were streaked but dry, as if she’d wept away those tears long ago.  He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he knew somehow that he couldn’t, like trying to touch a reflection on the water.

He struggled to concentrate, to focus on the real. He found it difficult to look away from the mottled skin of her throat. _Think of a question only Abigail could answer_.

“Ask her, then: what is the last thing she said to me?”

He saw her lips move, but it was the White Woman’s voice he heard.

“ ‘I didn't know what else to do. So I did what he told me.’ ”

Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes. He tried to blink them away and, in an instant, Abigail was gone.

“She says she’s trying to keep you from making the same mistake.”

Hannibal’s rage was incandescent, felt rather than seen, his shoulders squared in a way that always— _always_ —framed violence. As Will reached out a hand to stop him, it felt inadequate: a dike trying to hold back the force of a typhoon.

 “Enough. Enough.”

“Don’t you wish to hear the others? The crooked man…he longs to speak, though his words are somewhat…formless. He insists you know he was deceived.”

Will stood, hoping the whole of his physical presence between them might delay the inevitable. “ _He_ was deceived? He tried to sell _us_.”

“Will, this is—“

“He does not deny it. But—“  She leaned forward, straining to hear. Behind him, Hannibal tensed.

“On…the phone. A… Japanese woman..?”

Realization is a strange, icy thing. After it had poured through him, sharp-fingered, he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t realized it until this moment, as if the White Woman had opened a door he’d been staring at for months. The feeling almost froze him, but somehow, he found a few words, though they were thin and cold, chipped like ice.

“You set it up.”

Hannibal was silent.

“You had Chiyoh pretend to offer—so that I—“ 

“I had Chiyoh prove Yettick’s nature.  Better her than someone else.” Hannibal’s voice remained even, not betraying the violence Will could still feel pulsing just below the surface. “What you _should_ be asking is how Miss Avinell here could _possibly_ know that.”

But Will wasn’t thinking about that at all. He was far away, remembering that night, that kill, and all that had come after. He was imagining Hannibal planning it. Waiting as Will left the room, knowing what he would hear. Hannibal had let him open himself up, entire, to the kill, to his embrace, to everything. What had seemed beautiful now felt…false. As if he’d been playing a role, all unwitting.

The roiling in his stomach was familiar: it was the same feeling he’d had when he realized what Hannibal had been feeding him for so many months.

He sat again, unable to talk or move, as Hannibal turned his attention back to the White Woman.

“Tell me, Miss Avinell. Does the…what did you call Mr. Tier? The ‘feral-eyed man?’ Does _he_ say anything?”

Still lost through that opened door of the truth, Will saw it only from the corner of his eye: the disturbing twist of the White Woman’s lips.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to connect the dots, Dr. Lecter.”

“When Randall Tier was referred to me,” Hannibal continued, taking a step closer to her. “His case file spoke of a sister…Cara, if I recall.  Institutionalized two years prior. Schizophrenia.”

“Yes, poor dear. She thought she could speak to the dead.”

“I have a colleague and former lover who did her doctoral research on patients with severe schizophrenia.”

She did not blink.

“Did Dr. Bloom sign for your release? Set you in our path with sweet red dreams of vengeance?”

“Not at all. I’ve been out of the institution for years. Dr. Bloom helped me with that, actually. Taught me to take my medicine and figure out all the right answers to her questions. And for the record, when I approached her about it, Dr. Bloom advised me _against_ seeking you out. Seemed concerned I’d end up dead.”

“You _don’t_ seem too concerned about that. Interested in joining our little procession here?”

“Seems as good a way to go as any.”

 “We’ll see if you still feel that way before the end.” Hannibal smiled.

 “There’s time for that. Don’t _you_ want to hear from any of those who follow you?”

“They were all tedious enough in life. I can’t imagine death has improved them.”

“Are you sure? There’s one who very much wishes to speak to you.”

Will looked up. He knew somehow what was about to happen.

“She says she doesn’t blame you, if that means anything. She missed you, so she follows. She couldn’t follow him anymore, the other one, caged. She wanted to stay with you. Stay part of you.”

Will found Hannibal’s face exactly as he had expected. Arranged, but far _too_ arranged.

 “That’s what you wanted, too, isn’t it? When you picked up the fork--”

Hannibal struck, lifting her from her seat and pinning her to the wall with a speed and force that even Will found fearsome. The gun she had been holding clattered to the floor, though she didn’t seem to notice, Hannibal’s hands at her throat.

Still she rasped, eking out only the hint of syllables as he twisted. “ _Bro--li, ne—_ _prašom—“_  

To Will’s surprise, Hannibal answered back in that same tongue, words unclear but voice almost gentle, doting. It clashed awfully with the crushed, coarse crackle from the White Woman’s mouth.

Will had never seen her nor been alive on the same continent. He’d seen only the shadows her death had left—cracked portraits over cold fireplaces. But here, suddenly, he saw her. Her petite frame flickered over the White Woman’s, a china doll, pale gold hair shivering as Hannibal rang, rang, rang the bell of her neck. Her ashen skin was blood-drenched and brutalized, her clothing torn. Someone had worked a knife down her, taking time: it hadn’t been meant to kill but to torture, to excoriate, to squeeze every drop of pain. A swath of skin had been cut from her downy forearm all the way to the ball of the shoulder.

“Stop, Hannibal.”

 It was his voice, though it seemed disconnected. As he heard it, Mischa was gone, and it was her again.

The White Woman’s eyes were rolling: she would soon be gone, another ghost at their heels. Another whisper in his sleep.

They had agreed: they would kill killers. They would kill those deserving. This woman…was not a killer. Or evil--at least any kind of evil he could recognize. Insane, to be sure, but he didn’t feel in any position to start calling kettles black.

She was just a person who _might_ cause trouble. Like Yettick.

And Yettick was dead.

_Three_ people. Three people they had killed together since the Dragon and _none_ was truly deserving. Bedelia had it coming, perhaps, but none were truly evil. None filled him with the strong, quiet sense of rightness he had felt watching Dolarhyde collapse onto the pavement. 

Hannibal was pushing him, nudging him farther and farther over his own line. Hannibal was still in control, still laying the road at his feet, guiding him inch by inch towards becoming the killer _he_ wanted Will to be.

Abigail’s streaked, dead face floated in his mind. _She says she’s trying to keep you from making the same mistake._  

“Hannibal. Stop.” He found himself standing now, hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, tight. But it was no use. Sometimes, when a dog has a bone, even the word of his master is not enough to make it drop.

Will threw himself at him, all the anger and confusion and sudden mistrust uncoiling, propelling him. They collided, and though Will made little impact, causing Hannibal only to stutter-step, it was enough to shock him back to himself. Like a man waking from a dream, he seemed, for a moment, to have lost his bearings.

“You said _our decision_.” Will reached out and pulled his hands from the White Woman’s throat. Her body crumpled to the floor in a heap of splutters and gasps.

Regaining himself with surprising speed, Hannibal was sure to kick the gun as far across the floor from her as possible. His breath was steady, and when he met Will’s eyes, it was with the same expression he had worn so many times as they faced each other, chair to chair, in Baltimore. “Of course. Our decision.”

“My decision is _no_. Not this time, Hannibal.”

Whatever emotion he might have felt was once again tucked in tight behind his mask. “You would allow her to go free? This woman who knows us, has seen us, and has every reason to want to see us captured? Killed?”

“If she wanted us captured, she could have done that already. And I don’t think she’s in any position to kill us today.”

She still struggled for breath, her neck a study in red and blue.

 “I had no idea you could be swayed by a maudlin parlor trick.” He pulled at his rumpled shirt, straightening it, and reached up to smooth his hair. “She’s clearly been working with Alana. And Yettick. Leaving someone like her alive is precisely the mistake I made with Mason Verger. That almost cost us our lives.”  Hannibal found his eyes, and for barely more than a moment, there was tenderness there. “I don’t want to lose this, Will. I want to keep us safe.”

The uncertainty of whether Hannibal was manipulating him or being sincere was almost dizzying.

_Damned if I‘ll feel._ “And I want to stick to our agreement. You’re not whispering through the chrysalis anymore, Hannibal. I _have_ become. This is what I am. And I say _no_.”

They stood facing each other for what seemed a long time. What Hannibal was considering, what thoughts, if any, warred in the bone arena of his skull, Will couldn’t say. He merely watched, remembering the way Hannibal’s body had felt in the moonlight, when this was right. _It_ _could be right_.

But not like this.

“I can’t let you risk our freedom and our lives, Will.”

“I don’t intend to stop you.”  His feet, heavy and disconnected, found their way to the door. The creak of the knob as he opened it seemed obscene. “But I do intend to leave. Now. You can come with me or you can stay and finish—“ He gestured down at the White Woman, who still lay limp at the base of the wall where she’d fallen. “—this.”

He took one step and paused, unsure if he had the strength to wait for Hannibal to decide. The hollow of his chest already ached with the uncertainty of the moment, and he feared that if he didn’t leave now, he would lose resolve and fall back into Hannibal’s gravit.

Luckily for him, Hannibal didn’t hesitate.

With a clipped breath, he turned on his heels and looked down at the White Woman. “Give Dr. Bloom our best, and remind her that I intend to catch up with her _very_ soon.” He smiled. “And if we meet again, Miss Tier, be assured: I will pair you with an earthy red wine and never once worry about hearing your whispers in my sleep.”

Though her lips trembled slightly, cracked and dry, she smiled in return. “I look forward to it, Dr. Lecter. And Mr. Graham.”

As she said his name, her eyes met Will’s. Gray circles ringed them and the whites were dotted pink and red with broken capillaries.

For a moment, connected to her through her eyes, he felt them, the ghosts she spoke of: they pressed in, all around. Her brother, dark and wild-eyed, crouched beside her, an animal coiled to pounce.

_The Hermit. The Fool._ He blinked, and they were gone. They were alone again.

_Death_.

“And, Mr. Graham,” Her voice was rough, each word a struggle. “A word of warning. Love with your heart but do not _lose_ it. And do not forget. Any of them.”

He walked through the door and didn’t look back. In his mind, more than Hannibal trailed after.

Once he’d made it out and to the street, breaths came more easily, and the press of the imagined dead eased. He paused a moment, waiting for Hannibal to join him. The moonlight made his face hard to read.

They walked to the train station together in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile, I know. As I revisited my drafts of these last few chapters, I found I had to do a little more than the usual nip and tuck. More like major reconstructive surgery. ;) So if anyone is still around, thanks for your patience!
> 
> The next chapter will be back to Bedelia and her fate. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are SUPER appreciated. They help me power through what often seem like daunting rewrites. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia: it's what's for dinner.

**Chapter 11**

**************************

_One month after the fall_

 

Will came upon them suddenly, following the small, squelching sounds to their source.  It hunched over her, all black limbs and antlers across the naked expanse of her skin. It pressed her into the gray grass, head dipped, breath rising in rivulets of steam. Slowly, sensually, it lowered its teeth to her bare thigh, sinking into the soft flesh, the whisper of tearing skin muted by her moan, shuddering and obscene.

As if encouraged, it moved up her body, revealing the cratered surface of skin already tasted. The blood was dripping pitch, but she seemed to feel only pleasure, watching it climb her through hooded, eager eyes.

As it bent to her face, she turned, gaze landing square on Will as if she’d known he was there all along.

_The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive._ She gasped the words as it bit into her cheek, pulling away a chunk of tender pink flesh.

_You can transform this experience_. _You can survive this happening to you._

As she whispered this between pants of pleasure, the beast became aware of him, unfolding, turning, a string of skin still dangling from its mouth.

The smell of blood and meat overwhelmed him as it turned, showing its face. His face. Will’s own.

He woke but not before his head rang with the shaking, unsettling sound of Bedelia crying out in ecstasy.

The odor of meat remained. It clogged his nose and coated his tongue like stale syrup. He blinked, and with each blink, the memory of its source refocused.

“I hope you like barbeque, Mr. Graham.”

 It was disconcerting to hear her voice like this after the raw desire of his dream. Propping himself up, he saw her silhouetted against the window, sitting in the same wheelchair Hannibal had used just a few weeks before. When she turned in his direction, though he remembered and had known, it still shocked him to see the empty space—the vacancy emerging from beneath her thin robe.

His stomach turned, the scent of meat striking him again. “I usually enjoy a good barbeque, though I can’t say I’ve had this particular cut.”

This time, the memory did not spring to mind unbidden: instead he searched for it, like thumbing over the curve of a rolodex.

He had held her ankle in his hand, stretching out the delicate length of limb while Hannibal prepared the instruments.   He’d stared up at her unconscious face and imagined her waking, screaming, to the clean, surgical lack she would find. He had trouble imagining that—Bedelia screaming. Part of him recoiled, but part of him—a cold, insistent part—was looking forward to filling that gap in his imagination.

He remembered the smell of the saw as it chewed through bone, marrow and heat.

He had slept through her waking and missed it. Somehow, seeing her composed face, he doubted that she had screamed at all.

 “Hannibal won’t be partaking, I assume, and I’ve been avoiding meat since I realized that the _tȇte de veau_ was more likely to be _tȇte d’homme_.” She rolled the wheelchair closer, somehow managing to look as elegant as she had balanced in heels. “And Hannibal will remember: you promised only to spare my life.”

He tried to remember that foggy moment. _“I won’t kill you. I won’t—any— “_

“Technically true, I suppose,” he sighed, wiping what remained of sleep from his eyes.

 “Will you now enjoy the taste of flesh, Mr. Graham? Is that how you will love him?”

 “Wouldn’t want you to go to waste, Bedelia,” he replied.

“I imagine he will enjoy watching you enjoy it. Perhaps more than he would firsthand.”

Will nodded, reaching over to pull on a t-shirt. He was aware, distantly, that this was all somewhat cruel, but something in her unflappable demeanor irritated him. “And how does that make you _feel_?”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, slow-tongued but steady.  “It was unrealistic to expect to emerge from another meeting with Hannibal—whole.”

“You play, you pay.”

“Just so.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, and, for a moment, he could have believed they were back in Baltimore, seated across from one another in the wide round sunlight of her office.

“Do _you_ expect to emerge from this experience whole?” She seemed genuinely curious.

“I don’t expect to _emerge_ from anything.”

“I see. Love is being submerged, no intention of surfacing, is that it?”

“I don’t anticipate needing to come up for air, no.”

 “Must have been a hell of a kiss.” She smiled, and, as if not truly expecting him to answer, continued. “So you will stay, submerged, two divers hunting the pearl of Death to the bottom of the sea. Do you believe, then, that you are a killer?”

“You once told me that I wasn’t.” He wasn’t sure if he was evading the question or if he was simply more interested in hearing her response.

“Your Self is a construct of your mind. And the only person who’s ever truly had his fingers in _that_ cookie jar is Hannibal.”

“I know who I am. I know _what_ I am.”

“A killer?”

“I can be.”

“Like a bride converting before the wedding, you will…accommodate him.”

“We have an arrangement.”

“ _You_ have an arrangement,” she sighed. “Hannibal has a _plan_.”

He met her eyes and found only pity. She should have been afraid, desperate. _He_ should be the one pitying _her_. Instead, she was talking to him as if the lack was his—as if _he_ had just lost a limb.

“I would worry more about yourself, Bedelia.”

“I look at the Devil, and I know him as he is. There is peace in certainty.”

“You think I don’t know Hannibal as he is?”

“Passion warps your vision,” she said, turning away, facing out the window once more. “’The Devil’s greatest trick is to persuade you that he doesn’t exist.’”

“I’m fully aware of what Hannibal is.”

“And what would that be?” Hannibal asked as he set a hand on Will’s waist. Will jumped then immediately cursed himself for it.

He looked over his shoulder and was glad to see Hannibal smiling.

“Devilishly handsome..?” he tried lamely.

Somewhat surreal, both Hannibal and Bedelia chuckled, and as if to reassure him, Hannibal cupped Will’s face in one hand, dampening whatever anger Bedelia had stoked with a casual touch. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Will was glad to see Bedelia’s expression darken at this, not quite as poised as she seemed.

“In the meantime, an aperitif.” He handed them both small glasses of clear liquor. They smelled clean and sharp. “To old friends and new beginnings,” he intoned, lifting his drink slightly and downing the whole of it in one go. Will followed suit, managing to enjoy the mellow burn of anise as it worked its way down his throat.

From the look on Bedelia’s face, he was guessing she wished there was another round.

“And, since this is a special occasion, I thought we might all wish to look our best. Will, there’s a suit for you in the closet, if you like, and for you, Bedelia—“ Hannibal held out a dress that shone in the last throes of the sunset, the same deepening blue as the sky.

It elicited a look of genuine surprise. “From Pertonelli’s? When did you…?”

“On a whim as I passed by one rainy day.” His tone was wistful, and Will felt true tenderness in the memory. “I dreamt of seeing you in it, just before the end. An exquisite sliver of gloaming as the light set in your eyes.”

Will enjoyed watching this sink in, though Bedelia offered no more recognition of this romantic yet murderous notion than a too-long blink.

“Since that day doesn’t seem likely to arrive, I thought it most appropriate for tonight. And of course…“

Hannibal held out a single high-heeled shoe.

A short, sudden laugh escaped Will’s throat before he could suppress it. Or perhaps he hadn’t _really_ tried.

“Very…thoughtful.” She rolled forward, taking the shoe from Hannibal with a sigh. Though she looked as cool as ever, Will didn’t miss the slight tremor of her hand as her fingers closed beside Hannibal’s. Deliberately, never taking her eyes from his, she held the shoe out to her side and dropped it.

Hannibal didn’t look away either and gave no sign of having noticed.

“You have a new doll to dress up for your dramatics, Hannibal.” She glanced at Will with the cold, golden venom he had known would surface eventually. He had seen it a single time, back in their previous life. _You righteous, reckless, twitchy little man._  

 “On the contrary, Bedelia: I believe you will find you are quite literally the centerpiece of the evening.”

Will laughed again. Perhaps it was the liquor, but he was beginning to enjoy this after all.

“I have no doubt you’ve already dressed that part of me more than adequately. When it comes to presentation you are always to be depend—ed….upon for…” Several more words trickled from her lips, but they were croaked and indistinct.

Her head lolled to the side, hair sliding across her features like a veil.

When Will looked to him, Hannibal tapped his empty glass and smiled.  

“I have to say, I’ve been looking for a way to shut her up like that for some time.”

“Flunitrazepam is the most effective means I’ve found.” Hannibal picked her up from the wheelchair, her limbs drooping like an overwatered flower as he carried her to the bed. Pausing for a moment to look at her, he leaned down and gently began to pull at the belt of her dressing gown.

Will swallowed, the joy he had felt just a moment before draining, bloodless, and leaving behind something hollow. He knew, intellectually, that it meant nothing. After all, they had just removed her leg together, which had required a certain amount of dishabille. Of touching. But this—draped across the bed, lying in a pool of soft light—it was too intimate.

“Hannibal.” For the space of those three syllables, against his will, his voice laid bare an insecure stretch of himself. He should have been embarrassed by it—perhaps was. But at the moment, he was more concerned with the grip on his heart.

Hannibal withdrew his hand. “Will—you needn’t be concerned—“

“I understand. But…” He couldn’t find it in himself to vocalize it. The desperate, paralyzing feeling of watching him touch her. The inability to suppress a mind that ticked forward with each of Hannibal’s thoughts, projected the undressing and redressing to its conclusion through Hannibal’s memory-tinged eyes.

A small, uncertain part of him whispered, barely able to make itself heard. Was Hannibal doing this on purpose? Trying to spark some fire, some violence within him?

“No, Will.” Hannibal stood and reached down for his hand. He smelled vaguely of Chanel and charcoal. “I understand. We can proceed however you wish. Keep her here while we eat. Or leave now, like this, and be on our way. Is that what you want?”

Is that what he wanted? That Hannibal would offer to walk away gave him pause: this moment meant something to him, and he was willing to put it aside to set Will’s mind at ease. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine that scenario. They would step out the door and into the car and drive off to…wherever Hannibal planned. Bedelia would wake here, on this empty bed, one roasted limb short but still alive. Hannibal would make sure she slept as long as necessary to put a stretch of road between them. Bedelia would make it to the phone. She would notify the FBI. She would have lurid new flourishes for her Hannibal circuit—new encounters with the Beast. And his Bride, now, of course.

He looked down at her, splayed and helpless in the pale light.

No, that wasn’t their design. If they had to leave her alive, they should at least play this out to the end of Hannibal’s game. Whatever that was. He didn’t know what the other man had planned for sure, but he felt sure that it wasn’t going to be something she’d feel like using to entertain an auditorium full of rubbernecks.

Feeling a familiar sense of rightness suffuse him, he looked back up at Hannibal, who watched him with open curiosity.

“We can’t leave before dinner. That would be rude.”

Hannibal’s smile was purely feline.

“But, if you don’t mind, _I’ll_ dress our guest while you see to the table.”

“As you wish.” Hannibal stepped close. “Ever as you wish, Will.”

The kiss Hannibal pressed to his forehead lingered long after he’d gone.

 

****************

 

The suit set out for him wasn’t half bad. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting: maybe a three-piece set of stiff plaid plucked from Hannibal’s closet. But this was _almost_ something he might have chosen, although he’d never have paid what he guessed it cost. It was dark gray, simply cut, with a white button-up and a tie that echoed the blue of Bedelia’s dress.

He’d left the tie hanging in the closet.

Hannibal was still fussing over something in the kitchen. He set a garnish on the plate, made a face, reset it, and stood back, appraising. Will stepped up behind him and laid a gentle hand on his waist, just as Hannibal had earlier. Hannibal, however, didn’t flinch. He merely turned, taking in the sight of Will.

“Do you have some delightfully romantic tale about buying me this suit? About watching the light set in my eyes? Was this _my_ death suit?”

After he’d made the joke, he wasn’t sure if it was gauche to joke about attempting to kill one another, but Hannibal merely laughed and went back to plating. “No, but you _do_ look good enough to eat.”

“When were you going to tell me about Chiyoh?” he asked, leaning back against the counter and watching Hannibal closely.

He didn’t look up. “I assumed you had figured it out already.”

“How long have you been in contact with her?”

“Since we arrived,” he said, matter of fact. “She has been helping arrange our next destination. I knew that she would be waiting. She’d been camping out in the pines for a week or so.”

Will swallowed. He wanted to press; he wanted the whole truth, but he also wanted to know that Hannibal would tell him of his own volition.“She brought Bedelia. And the dress. And suit.”

“Yes.”

The shift of serving silver was loud.

“What is it you really want to know, Will?”

“That was your plan. She was there with us—for the Dragon.”

Hannibal stopped his preparations, but he didn’t look up. “There were only a few possible outcomes of our encounter with the Dragon. We might both have been killed, in which case any plans would come to naught. One or both of us might have been severely injured. Or both of us would make it out alive, and you would try to kill me. In any of these instances, having someone there to assist seemed prudent.”

“And if I did try to kill you? Was that damn rifle trained on me the whole time?”

“No, Will. I knew from the moment we looked out over the Atlantic together that we were for the sea. I didn’t say anything to Chiyoh about that. I…wanted to see what would happen.”

Will chuckled. “Did you imagine _this_?” He indicated the serving silver, his suit, the kitchen.

“I dreamt.”

They exchanged gentle smiles that spoke of easily, quietly letting the past be past.

“Is our guest awake?” Will sighed, smoothing at his shirt.

Hannibal nodded. “More or less. When I went in to fill the water glasses and lay out her oysters, she was coherent albeit a bit…hazy.”

 “Hazy can only be an improvement.”

 

****************

It was Bedelia who broke the silence.

“Theatrical presentation, as always. But kalua roast? A tad…” She paused, her brow furrowing. The pause lasted a little longer than it should. “A tad …common…for your tastes, Hannibal. Not…fussy.”

Will smiled into his glass. Though Bedelia always spoke as if half-stoned anyway, her words now were even slower, over-enunciated.

“On the contrary, I find that simpler flavors showcase the quality of the meat.” Hannibal smiled back at Will, clearly in as excellent a humor as Will had ever seen. He took a sip of wine before he added, “I wanted to bring out the best in you tonight, Bedelia.”

“I haven’t been eating acorns… oysters, and…marsala…if that’s what you’re hoping.”  

“ _I’m_ not hoping for anything,” he said lightly. “It’s Will’s palate we’re aiming to please tonight.”

“And no doubt _he_ is aiming to please _you_.” She turned her bleary eyes to him, and even through the haze, she gave the impression of seeing too much.  “Did you share Yettick with him as well? How much of your Self do you intend to let him devour, Mr. Graham?”  Even through the slow struggle, the words came keen.

Will looked away. He was happy for the wine, glad to have something to busy his hands and mask his expression. She was right, of course. He wasn’t sitting at the table because he was hungry: he was sitting there for Hannibal.

_Like a bride before the wedding you will….accommodate him._

It had been an apt comparison: in this moment, he _was_ Hannibal’s bride. _Murder husbands_ , Freddie had called them, and, seeing Bedelia’s drugged face, still scenting the antiseptic stump concealed below a table bathed in romantic candlelight, for the first time, he felt like just that. Twinned predators with her as their prey.

She expected him to hedge, to look away in confusion or shame. 

But shame wasn’t what he felt now, seated across from Hannibal. The realization surprised him.

 “I’ve rather enjoyed the devouring he’s done thus far, actually,” he said.

Hannibal laughed. It was a proper, full-throated laugh, a sound Will hadn’t imagined coming from him. Judging from Bedelia’s flinch, she hadn’t either.

This time _she_ looked away.

They fell back into silence, and he forced himself to feel more at ease with it, reminding himself that awkward quiet was often preferable to Bedelia talking.

For now, however, she seemed at a loss, caught between the haze of Hannibal’s drugs and the jumpy fear of finding herself one leg short between two men who wanted her dead. When Hannibal stood to bring the salad plates in from the kitchen, her gaze tracked him close, her body tense. Fleeting, as he watched her hand tremble to the glass in front of her, Will almost felt sorry for her. She had, after all, offered him some sound advice along the way, pointed though it was.

Then he remembered her, cool, seated across from him in a different room with one-way glass.

_Report said he swallowed his tongue._

_It wasn’t attached at the time._

She wasn’t innocent. She had killed. And of course, she had chosen Hannibal once, too. When the tables had been turned in Italy—when it had been him seated and prepared at Hannibal’s table—she hadn’t come charging to _his_ rescue. She’d been saving herself. That’s what she was good at…until now.

Now she simply sat, staring at the salad in front of her blankly.

“Would it help if I assured you that the salad is entirely vegetarian?” Hannibal held up a slice of carrot as if to demonstrate.

She chose wine instead and even at that she hesitated, no doubt since the last drink had resulted in this very situation. Nevertheless, she held the glass up as if in a mock toast and drank.  “Will your Japanese friend be joining us?”

“Chiyoh is not entirely predictable. I believe we’ll have enough to go around if so." Hannibal paused, looking at her more keenly. “As we speak of the unpredictable: what will you do when we’ve gone, Bedelia? What tale do you plan to tell Jack Crawford?”

“I will help you tell the version of events you want to be told.”

The look that passed between them went beyond fondness: it had a depth Will wouldn’t have guessed existed in the often clinical space they shared. He saw in it more than Hannibal had admitted—perhaps more even than Hannibal himself knew.

He barely had time to feel the rolling boil of jealousy before that moment had passed and Hannibal stood to serve Bedelia’s leg.

Her face closed, and she doubled back, whatever warmth she had found replaced by a stony blank. 

_Now_ there’s _a mood killer,_ he decided, taking in the picture of sliced leg, steaming, on the plate before him.

Freshly cut, the scent of the meat hit him in waves, at first pleasant, and then less so, as the scene drew again across the canvas of his mind. Her limp yet warm ankle against his palm. The hot marrow smell as the leg detached with a thunk—less drama than he’d expected. The raw dimpled meat revealed beneath, dripping blood over an unblinking eye of bone. The sour tang of antiseptic mixing, sick, with the spice of perfume.  

“Consider that bite, Mr. Graham. ‘A mighty flame followeth a tiny spark,’” she said as he cut into the meat, pulling away what seemed a tiny thing. “One bite taken to please may soon lead to true…hunger.”

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He hoped his face didn’t betray his thoughts, aware that Bedelia dissected his every hesitation. Would she be right about that, too? Would he, eventually, develop a taste for it, as Hannibal had? He’d eaten and enjoyed it unwittingly often enough, it was true. But, as with most joy, too much knowledge of the thing robbed it of its savor.

“I would suggest that you can love him without _becoming_ him.”

He was afraid to look at Hannibal: afraid Hannibal would see the flash of fear he felt at those words. Instead he looked at the bite before him, feeling the absurdity of his own tension. It wasn’t a statement about his soul or about Hannibal or about their…whatever they had. It wasn’t about Bedelia or his future. It was a hunk of meat. The only real question was _Do you want to eat it?_

Crossing them both from his thoughts, he considered this. The smell was smoky and sweet, the meat perfectly roasted and as tender as leg muscle could reasonably be. _Only an idiot won’t take one bite of a thing_ , his dad used to grumble at him when there was something new at the table. _Might be your new favorite_.

Of course it never was his new favorite, but he’d never regretted taking the chance.

After all, he needed a little more ‘what the hell’ in his life, didn’t he?

Sure to meet Bedelia’s eyes, he set the bite on his tongue, chewed, and swallowed.  

Preoccupied with cataloguing first her reaction and then Hannibal’s, he didn’t truly taste it, but the flavor left on his tongue was gamey, syrupy with a hint of heat. He let it fade from his palate completely before he gave a nod and cut off a second bite.

Bedelia looked away, eyebrows drawing in as if feeling his teeth set down in her phantom-limb.

Hannibal’s voice was light again as he leaned towards her and smiled. “Please do try to enjoy yourself, Bedelia.”

Will might have laughed had his mouth not been full, but she was not amused, clearly tired of playing Hannibal’s game.  “The only satisfaction this meal will bring me is knowing that you won’t be tasting it.”

Will froze, aware in some animal way of the sudden change in the room. The look he saw in Hannibal’s eyes might as well have paired with a growl—the twitch of the stalking lion’s tail.

_That, my dear Dr. Du Maurier, is the first mistake I’ve ever seen you make._

Whatever Hannibal had planned, that was his cue.

He stood and circled behind her, not slowly but not quickly, giving her just enough time to fear what might come. As he set a hand on her bare back, she jumped, her chest suddenly trembling with staccato breaths. She didn’t turn her head to look at him, seeming paralyzed.

Even Will was surprised when Hannibal stepped away, instead approaching him and leaving Bedelia behind. He swallowed his bite, himself feeling an involuntary frisson of fear as Hannibal neared.

The kiss was fierce, Hannibal’s tongue mapping every inch of his own. Shaken by the sudden fever of lust, it took Will a long, upside-down moment to realize what was happening.

“Delicious,” Hannibal half-breathed _._

Smiling into the other man’s lips, he leaned away, swallowed another bite, and pulled Hannibal close again.

Their mouths became a union of tongues, Hannibal cradling the back of Will’s neck and releasing a silent breath of pleasure. Will rested a hand on the other man’s chest, dimly aware of the hot, slow beat of his heart there.

When they both surfaced, Hannibal shone with an intoxicating light: brutal and aroused, tips of teeth glistening as he grinned.

 “You taste bitter, Bedelia: especially on Will’s lips.”

Any other time, Will would have jumped at the opportunity to gauge her reaction to this. Any other time, he might have reveled in her humiliation. But he found himself unable to look away from Hannibal, whose face searched his own, dark and gorgeous in a way Will hadn’t ever truly allowed himself to see and celebrate. And he knew Hannibal was seeing the same reflected back in the mirror of his gaze.

Bedelia’s voice seemed to waver, suddenly no more than the irritating buzz of a fly. “I would beware, Mr. Graham. Your lover keeps his promises, to be sure, but he keeps them very… _technically_.”

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder as if amused.

“I could say the same about you, Bedelia. Planning to take back the life you restored with that oyster fork?”

When he turned towards her fully, she blanched. “Guarding my remaining limbs.” She lifted the fork from her lap, candlelight glinting down its thin length. “I didn’t promise not to kill _you_.”

“That’s true,” he chuckled, taking the fork gently from her fingers and making as if to replace it on the oyster plate in front of her.

The time between that moment and the moment the fork slammed into Bedelia’s temple barely seemed to exist. There was a dull, sickening tear of skin, a scrape of skull and the sliding slush of gray matter, and then Hannibal was standing across from him again, surveying the frozen, shuddering woman with detached curiosity.

 “And I haven’t killed you,” he said after a time, popping half a plum tomato into his mouth and dabbing away a drop of blood that had dribbled onto his wrist. “Technically.”

Cracked, desperate half-sounds bubbled from Bedelia’s throat.

Sensing that dinner might be coming to an end, Will stood.

The sight of Hannibal folding his napkin and setting it beside his plate with such care was almost comical. The other man allowed himself one more sip of wine before, somewhat unexpectedly, he picked up a paring knife and offered it to Will, handle out.

His look was neither insistent nor expectant: he might as well have been offering Will more wine.

Looking down at Bedelia, Will felt numb dread. The shaking, wide-eyed terror that deformed her flawless face created in him twin selves: he had felt it once before with Frederick. There was, of course, the horror--the empathy that stabbed him too, awful and bright through the temple. It screamed within his skull, echoing pain, remorse.

But he felt the other, too. The dispassionate sense of…justice being done. _Contrapasso._

He saw her then, all at once, just as she was. A wounded bird, flapping, broken-winged on the grass.

_The next time your instinct is to help someone, you should really consider crushing them instead. You might save yourself some trouble._

The knife entered her neck with a barely a sigh, its simple pewter handle glowing dull in the candlelight.

“Extreme acts of cruelty require a high degree of empathy,” he barely whispered. Whether she heard him over the strangled tattoo of her breath, he couldn’t be sure.

Hannibal had produced a set of keys from his pocket and tidied his spot at the dinner table with precision. Pushing in his chair, he looked down at her, and, as if on a whim, leaned down to place a chaste kiss on her forehead.  “I’d leave that knife in as long as you can manage, _mia signora_.”

Then, with a smile that spoke only of a matter settled, he turned to Will and gestured for the door. “Shall we?”

Will, however, had trouble taking his eyes from Bedelia. Her face had turned, in a rictus, towards him, panic-stricken. Her lips opened and shut but the sounds that emerged were meaningless. For a moment he was lost in the stifled song of the crushed bird.

But outside, in the cool silence of night, his muscles loosened. It was calm and dark and he knew he could leave some of that—the tangled past he and Hannibal had shared—there, slowly bleeding out at the table.

He slid into the passenger side of the car, wondering if he would ever truly feel easy with a kill again. If he would ever feel as he had after the Dragon.

Sensing his worry, Hannibal leaned across the console, and Will met him. He could still taste the last of the meal they’d shared on the other man’s lips.

The road ahead shone in the moonlight. It was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, it has been awhile, hasn't it...but I didn't forget. No, not at all. Real life intervened for a time, and then, when I came back to this, I found so many scenes I wanted to tweak that I basically reworked at least some of every chapter. I'm stupidly obsessive like that. 
> 
> But I am happy to say that I've finished both this and the epilogue, which I'll post no later than this weekend (I promise!) Half the epilogue is written from Hannibal's POV, which was fun. There are also allusions to Cuba, as well as a few loose ends with Dr. Bloom and Cara Tier. 
> 
> In case there's anyone who managed to stick around for this, I hope it was worth the wait!


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara Tier has plans. So does Hannibal.

**Epilogue**

_Nine months after the fall_

 

Cara Tier had never had much opportunity to travel. She’d been twelve when they locked her up, and after her release, there was never enough money. From the small circles she _had_ travelled, however, she’d learned to stick to the freshly-poured concrete slabs of suburb. Cities, most of which had a longer history, teemed with the dead, overwhelmed by whispers and screams and voices that had fallen silent to the world long before. The only dead in the flat, dull suburbs were those who lived there, and they mostly ignored everyone but themselves.

She had never been to a place this old, though, and it shocked her, this city with a life measured in millennia. It was ghastly in the truest sense, the reek of death inescapable. The beauty of stucco and cobblestone streets was lost to her as she skittered, eyes mostly closed, through whatever narrow corridors of life she could find.

Dr. Bloom answered the door, her face its usual mixture of pity and ice. To her credit, she was clearly trying not to let the anger of their last encounter taint this one. She smiled and offered Cara a glass of wine as if they had not almost come to blows over the fate of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter just two months before. Cara said as much.

“I’m glad to see you alive,” she said, sipping at her wine in the way of someone who doesn’t really like wine. “Surprised isn’t an adequate description.”

 “I was lucky. Mr. Graham has his lover on a short leash.”

“Will is…troubled,” she said after a too-long moment, and Cara couldn’t be sure she believed it. “But he still has a heart. He just made the mistake of letting Hannibal into it.”

She bit her tongue, intent upon not debating this again. _No, Dr. Bloom. That was_ your _mistake._ “Is your wife here?”

“No, she hates to travel. Too much travel leaves a trail, and we know he’s just waiting to find a breadcrumb.”

“He did say he would be calling on you soon.” She felt a perverse pleasure in seeing the muffled dread that surfaced in the other woman’s eyes. Whatever Cara’s feelings about Graham and Lecter, she had to admit they left an impression.  She’d dreamt of them for weeks after, hands retracing the swollen rings around her neck.  “I’m afraid he might have gotten the idea that my little visit was at your behest.”

“That is _precisely_ why I didn’t want you getting in their way.”

_There_ was the anger.

“You didn’t just put yourself at risk: you put me, my wife, my—“

“What do you think that changes, Dr. Bloom? Worried he’ll kill you _more_ dead than he was already planning?”

“With Will holding Hannibal’s leash, as you say, my family just _might_ have a chance to survive. _Might_. But not if you go around poking them and telling them I gave you the stick.”

Where Will Graham was concerned, Alana Bloom, she was sad to see, remained stupidly optimistic. “Ready for a peace accord, then? Live and let live? Forgive me, but they don’t really seem like the ‘let live’ type. ”

“They let _you_ live.” The effort to remain calm strained the edge of each word. “I’m not saying that we should do nothing. I’m just saying now might not be the right time. We need more information. We need to know where they’re going, what they’re doing. Play a longer game.”

 “I don’t have time for the long game, doctor.” Her tone was impassive: she’d had months to make her peace with this fact. “I have a year, perhaps more if the doctors are wrong. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not able to wait while you screw your courage to the sticking place.”

“It’s not about _courage_. Jack Crawford had _courage_ , and he ended up with a knife in his neck and a dozen dead policemen. Everyone who has rushed to catch Hannibal—“

“No one will catch Hannibal.” Chiyoh’s voice flowed smooth and light as water, as even as the sound of her steps on the wood floor. She walked like the Reaper and a trail of spirits followed, but she did it with a comforting sort of certainty. Cara always found it soothing.

It seemed to annoy Dr. Bloom. “Then what do you suppose we’re doing here in our little sewing circle?”

The other woman didn’t answer, instead moving a leather chair aside for the woman who followed, announced only by the whispered electric whir of her wheelchair.

Cara could see how she had been beautiful. Despite the deformities of her body, she managed a sort of grace and took pains to have her hair styled and her make-up done. But half her face was slack and dead, one corner of her mouth turned down and out. With her good arm, she dabbed at it frequently: her other arm was tethered to the wheelchair to keep it out of the way. All her remaining limbs were growing gaunt with disuse, her stylish clothes seeming to swallow the wisp of her. At the base of her neck, a small puckered scar stood out in relief against her porcelain skin.

Cara had sought Dr. Du Maurier after reading the story in the paper. Hannibal Lecter had been an obsession since her brother’s name appeared on his list of victims. She hadn’t been surprised. Psychiatrists were _all_ mad: her brother had just stumbled upon one that was the same kind of crazy he was.

She’d tried to attend one of Du Maurier’s talks on Hannibal several years earlier, but it had been expensive, and she’d had to settle for comments and second-hand retellings on social media and blogs. After Dr. Du Maurier’s second encounter with Dr. Lecter, however, there were no more talks. No more tours or book deals. She simply holed herself up and disappeared to the world.

But Cara had found her. She’d been surprised to find her here, in Florence, after what she’d been through.

_It’s the only place I know he can’t come back to easily._

And besides, all that about forgetting herself—that had been a lie. Florence had been her home with Hannibal, and she had been herself. Her memories were not those of a victim, she said. Not in Florence, at any rate.

Cara had also been surprised to find her living with another woman—a friend of Hannibal’s, she said. It had taken some time before either had felt comfortable enough to share that story.

_I gave him back his life; Chiyoh gave mine back to me,_ was all she would say for a very long time.

But eventually, they both told her everything, including the truth about her brother’s death. About an FBI plot to capture Hannibal gone wrong. About a lovesick obsession that had left them both in its wake. Among others.

And a name was added to her ledger alongside Dr. Lecter’s: Will Graham.

It was Cara who’d connected Dr. Du Maurier with Dr. Bloom. Dr. Bloom had been hard to find, too, but it was easier as a former patient. Dr. Bloom answered her phone for a patient.

And they’d all sat together in this room—some but far from all of the women caught in the barbed net that trawled behind Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. And they had discussed the same dangerous topic: how to put an end to it. To _them_. 

“Good evening, Chiyoh. Dr. Du Maurier.”

 

Chiyoh nodded at her, pouring a glass and setting it on the table beside Dr. Du Maurier. “Good to see you, Cara.”

With her good arm, the other woman took the glass, and, after a long and relished sip, she turned around the screen mounted to her wheelchair and typed.

_Good evening, Cara. Congratulations on your continued existence._ The words glowed black on the gray screen. _Welcome to the Survivor’s Club._ The half-leer she managed was unsettling.

“Could we please get back to the ‘no one catching Hannibal’ bit?”

Dr. Bloom hadn’t been at ease in the others’ company last time, either. Cara could tell she felt herself above them all, as if somehow she was the reasonable one—the sane one. But Cara also knew the truth: for all her fortitude, Alana Bloom lived in fear of toppling under the weight of what had happened to her. What might still happen. She just tried harder to hide it.

Which was one of the things that put Cara at ease with Dr. Du Maurier. She was a woman—or what was left of one—with no desire to hide. She had felt wind on the wing of madness, and she was using it to soar.

“I was under the impression that seeing Hannibal back behind very solid bars was the aim that brought us all together. I certainly didn’t—“

“A _nd_ Will Graham,” Cara added.

Dr. Bloom swallowed and nodded, though her voice was small as she corrected herself. “Yes. Both of them.”

Dr. Du Maurier typed again. _You’ve been here before, Dr. Bloom. Almost this same spot, even down to the vengeful cripple._ She paused a moment, watching the statement sink in through one dead blue eye. _How did that work out last time, remind me? When you set out to catch him?_

Dr. Bloom didn’t answer.

_I’m not Mason Verger. I know better than to try and best Hannibal. One only has so many second chances…and limbs._

Cara sighed, impatient. “We can’t keep coming back to this. What do you propose? Give the FBI a, what, third shot?”

They’d had the same disagreement the last time they’d sat down together. Once Dr. Bloom realized Chiyoh knew the two men’s location, she insisted they do something immediately.

Chiyoh refused. She would give them information, she would help ensure that Lecter and Graham stayed far enough away, she would give warning when they were on the move, but she wasn’t going to turn anyone in. Chiyoh had been very final on that point.

And besides, she’d insisted, turning them in had never worked before. The FBI had proven their incompetence in the matter many times over. 

Eventually Cara had given up and informed them of her own intentions. She’d left, assuming never to see any of them again.

Perhaps Dr. Bloom would have preferred that. “I don’t trust the FBI to do this properly any more than you do. But I’m trying to understand what point your little adventure served? It seems like all it did was put them on their guard.”

If Dr. Bloom expected her to defend her actions, she would be disappointed. How she spent the thin and dwindling stretch of her remaining life was her own concern. She didn’t expect anyone with a mind as tidy and fortified as Alana Bloom’s to understand. Her plan required a mind with dark corners and sharp turns. It required an intimate knowledge of the very thing Dr. Bloom had devoted her life to battling—it required madness.

Dr. Du Maurier understood. She turned her half-drooping face on Dr. Bloom. _There’s only_ one _person who has ever been able to catch Hannibal._

Dr. Bloom sighed like a school girl being taught too easy a lesson. “Hannibal.”

_Precisely. Hannibal brought about his own end.  And what drove him to that end?_

“Will. But I don’t see how you can expect the same this time around…This isn’t the same two men. These are—lovers. Survivors. And from the sound of it they’re enjoying sun and surf and--”

“Wedded bliss.” Chiyoh’s steady voice belied the effect she knew her words would have.

Dr. Bloom sputtered into silence. What surprised her about that, Cara couldn’t guess. Reckless and romantic, just as should be expected. Two men claiming a piece of stability in the face of endless uncertainty.

“At a small chapel in the Cuban quarter of town, about two weeks ago,” Chiyoh added, unasked. “They found an obliging officiant. They needed a witness.”

Cara watched Dr. Bloom’s face closely, noting the tiny ripple of anger that tightened the corners of her mouth, the bitter glint that flashed through cool eyes. She knew the other woman was holding the two images in her mind, comparing: their ‘wedded bliss’ laid out beside that of her own wife and child in hiding, afraid. Chiyoh was smart to bring it up now, here. They all needed reminding of why they sat down together in the first place. 

“Well, then, even more so. I can’t imagine either will be ready to put an end to the honeymoon anytime soon.”

Cara leaned in, meeting Dr. Bloom’s eyes and hoping that the other woman would see the sincerity there. “There _is_ a rift between them. They try not to look at it, they allow themselves to let declarations of love drown out the sound of it, but it’s there. I saw it in Will Graham’s eyes when I raised the specter of Abigail Hobbs. When I told him how Hannibal had manipulated him yet again.” The women assembled here had given her many of the details: she’d known they would be of use. And they had been. They were the bait that had caught Graham’s mind.  “Will Graham is adrift, casting about for whatever ragged bits of self he can find after their tumble into the sea. And, while Eros is currently strangling Psyche, eventually he will come back to who and what he is. His conscience will not be drowned—not even for Hannibal.”

Dr. Bloom’s brow creased, the look of a memory.  “’A mutually-unspoken pact to ignore the worst in one another in order to continue enjoying the best.’”

The tapping of the keyboard was quiet but final. _If Hannibal accepted this about his lover, they might be invincible. But Hannibal will not. He will continue to manipulate, to push, to change. Like the Devil, it is in his nature to bend others into his likeness_.

Cara leaned back again, remembering Will Graham’s face when he’d seen Abigail. Grief, nostalgia, regret. But it had been nothing compared to Lecter’s. For he did nothing so keenly as watch Will Graham, and she had seen, for the briefest of seconds, the veil he wore shiver aside. He had been afraid.

“Graham won’t be able to ‘ignore the worst’ forever. And Hannibal knows it. He believes he can change that.”

For the first time, Dr. Bloom seemed to truly consider her. “I thought you didn’t have time to play the ‘long game’, Cara?”

“That’s why I’m hoping to…speed up the process a bit.”

 “And how are you planning to do that?”

“Mr. Graham is afraid of ghosts. I’m going to haunt them. I’m going to be sure he remembers.”

Dr. Bloom shook her head. “They’ll kill you. Hannibal won’t give you another chance.”

She felt again, vivid and bruising, fingers crushing her throat. It took her a moment to swallow the strange mixture of terror and relief the memory always roused. “Ghosts are most frightening when they’re only _glimpsed_. I don’t intend to be seen.”

Chiyoh watched her for a moment before moving to a tall window behind her, looking out through the thin bright line of light between the curtains. Cara couldn’t be sure what Chiyoh had seen in her face, but whatever it was, it seemed to convince her all over again. The mixture of hate and love, of repulsion and attraction. It was what they all shared, like it or not. _We’re his little birds._ “They’ll be moving again soon. Hannibal has asked me to secure the boat in a marina nearby. I believe he already has a destination in mind. One outside the reach of the FBI.”

“Jack Crawford will reach however far he must,” Dr. Bloom said.

“Jack Crawford must follow the law, especially after all the…mishaps…he’s overseen,” Cara said, taking a long draw of her wine and wondering in which way the wind would be directing her sails. “Luckily, I’m not similarly bound.”

She felt the smiling stretching across her as surely as she still felt Hannibal Lecter’s hands at her throat.

Dr. Bloom didn’t smile back.

 

*********************************

_Ten months after the Fall_

Hannibal didn’t take their freedom lightly. He had poured so much of the last few years into getting here, to this place, with Will. It simply wasn’t worth much risk. But this morning he’d made an exception. This morning was special.

And special mornings always called for special breakfasts. Will insisted that he preferred his breakfast light and simple: coffee, orange juice, perhaps eggs or toast. Each time Hannibal had tried to tempt him with something more elaborate, he balked. He ate it, of course, and admitted he liked it. But he didn’t really _want_ it.

This morning he would make something Will wanted _._ That being said, it would be simple but it would also be the _best_.

The market was a small one he’d heard several men discussing in a bodega up the road from their apartment. It was an ephemeral affair, mostly migrant workers and local farmers with makeshift signs and small crates of food or wares. It was the sort of market that could pick up and move in an instant if law enforcement—especially, say, La Migra—were to arrive unexpectedly. People bought with cash and, though they smiled, they asked no questions. If anyone thought it strange to see a gringo looking for blood oranges or farm fresh eggs in accented Spanish, they kept it to themselves.

It was always a risk, but today he took it.

Even this early, the Florida sun had managed to make a hot plate of the car’s faux leather seats, and he was glad he’d gone to the effort of packing a small icebox just in case. He put the eggs and milk inside and tucked it into the shade of the trunk, hoping he wouldn’t arrive to eggs already over easy.

Bathed in rusty morning light, the drive to and from relaxed him, especially the stretches that took him alongside the sea. After so many years trapped in that stale glass box of Alana’s, the smell of salt and the crispness of the breeze were still intoxicating, bursting across his senses like bubbles in champagne. Watching the interstate unrolled before him, it was hard not to think of the road ahead: to dream. That was something he’d been able to avoid most of his life, that childish urge to imagine the shape of the future, idealized, laid out in an orderly line. The future was not orderly: it was chaos, always, and chance. The future was a construct of the human imagination—the forced reckoning of our limited consciousness with the universe’s determined grind into disorder. Only fools allowed themselves to stretch beyond the present.

But, watching the marrow of the sun glint off his golden band, he found it hard not to be one of those fools. For once, he found himself dreaming.

It was an odd sensation, not entirely unpleasant, but not comfortable. Not in any way comfortable.

Then again, comfort could be every bit as illusory as the future.

Back at the apartment, all was dark with no sign that Will had stirred. Knowing that he would have plenty of time to prepare breakfast to his own exacting standards, he lost himself to the heat and the ritual of it.

For such a small apartment, their kitchen was perfectly appointed. Natural light filtered in, slanted rays rimmed in copper and dust. It was a place he could have lived: one that felt more like home than any place since Baltimore.  Of course it wasn’t home. They would have to leave soon—sooner than he’d thought. But it was for the best. And home, like their lives, could be reconstructed, a brick at a time.

He heard the footsteps before the sleep-tinged voice. And then the smell. “You’ve been busy.”

Will’s morning musk still caught him sometimes, a warm wriggle in his gut responding to something instinctual, purely animal. “There’s coffee in the press.” He allowed himself a quick glance up from the stove. The other man had shuffled in, clad as usual in boxer briefs and undershirt, hair tousled in a way that seemed unnaturally beautiful. But then that was Will—unnaturally beautiful. Something Other.

Will poured his coffee and sat at the bar, watching Hannibal as he cracked eggs into a bowl. “What sort of concoction will it be this morning? A French dish I’ve never heard of or an Italian dish I’ve never heard of?”

He didn’t need to look up to know the wry smile on Will’s face. “I’m afraid this morning we’ll be sticking to the basics: sausage grilled with fragrant garlic and apple, eggs over medium with a hint of cayenne, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.” 

A moment of silence passed before Hannibal allowed himself to continue working.

But Will didn’t ask this time. He had asked before, with Yettick, even though he’d known. He’d asked as a way of distancing. He might enjoy the art, but it wasn’t his creation.

This time, however, he didn’t seem to mind. Nothing asked, nothing answered.

He felt himself smiling. That happened a lot, these days, it seemed.

“I’m going to go out to the marina after breakfast,” Will said, stretching as he crossed over to the small kitchen table that looked out the window and towards the sea. He slouched slightly over his coffee, for a moment before reaching for the newspaper Hannibal had laid out. “There’re still a few things I’d like to shore up before we think about taking her anywhere. That Annie Oakley of yours may have a lot of talents, but boat maintenance isn’t one of them.” He unfolded the paper and glanced questioningly in Hannibal’s direction. “Are you going to tell me where we’re sailing yet?”

Hannibal merely shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”

In fact, he expected Will would guess as soon as he opened that paper in earnest. The sausage sizzled as he waited.

It had been three weeks since their evening in the chapel. In the rose gold of sunset, just them and Chiyoh and an obliging—and blind—clergyman. It hadn’t mattered so much about the denomination or the vows, but there were forms to observe, and such rituals provided a structure and tradition he found pleasing. Unnecessary but lovely, like a tasteful frame for a painting. He’d even convinced Will to wear a tailored suit. With a tie _and_ a tiepin. A black that had glowed like polished jet in the light.

These days, in the quiet moments, he found himself in that tiny chapel again, with its rough-hewn pews and candle wax scent. It was the room that joined his memory palace to Will’s now, the antechamber of his mind.

Only three weeks. Three weeks and they’d settled into a domesticity that would no doubt amuse the manhunters at the FBI. _Murder husbands_ , Will had reminded him that night, and the phrase had floated back to him each morning as he’d laid out the paper and made coffee the way Will liked it.

The flutter of the newspaper had stopped, and he knew Will was reading. Forcing his own patience, he arranged Will’s plate, adding a pinch more cayenne. Will had a New Orleans palate, Hannibal had learned, preferring some spices in greater measure than Hannibal would have ever considered. Cayenne was childhood, he’d said. _One of the only good parts about it_ , he’d added through a bite of flounder several weeks earlier. Hannibal had dutifully made note.

_Murder husbands_ , he thought again, feeling himself smirk though his face didn’t move.

“Cuba?”

This time, the smile surfaced.  _Clever boy._

“Is that your plan?”

“Less of a ‘plan’ than a vector. A direction.” He set the plate down in front of Will and glanced at the same story he’d read earlier that morning. He’d known, reading it, that it was the perfect hook. Kismet, if one believed in that sort of thing.

He didn’t.

Will went silent again as he continued reading, though he did pause long enough to take a bite of egg. The appreciative murmur was unfeigned and precisely what Hannibal had been hoping for.

_Perhaps I could sneak in a hint of chervil next time_ , he mused, letting his eyes meander down to the dingy bustle of streets now stirring. He had expanded Will’s palate in so many ways already: breakfast shouldn’t be too difficult.

Unbidden, he saw Will in his mind’s eye, hands gloved in the thick silk of blood, eyes alight, body shuddering with too-quick breaths. The heart shivered in his palm, and for a split second, Hannibal had thought he might eat it then and there. Instead he’d merely offered it up, ready for the table.

It was the keenest in those moments, that feeling like an open wound. As if he watched Will hold his own heart. It was a pain he was learning to enjoy, an ache as sweet as it was sharp.

He’d proposed that night, so keenly had he ached for such moments never to end.

It took a moment before he realized that Will had begun reading aloud. “‘And while Flores celebrates the death of ‘ _El DiabloFloridense’_ , she speaks in hushed tones about the Cuban gang which funded his activities, a syndicate headed by the figure known to Cubanos only as _El Látigo_.’”

“’The whip.’ Seems apt.”

Will sighed, folding the paper neatly and turning his eyes to Hannibal, the same vivid blue as the square of sky beside him. “Rape, torture, murder, human trafficking…if you were looking for a meal I’d find appetizing, I’d say you’ve outdone yourself.”

He smiled. “Does that mean we might direct our sails to Cuba?”

Will looked down at his breakfast, and Hannibal could sense him trying to rationalize, to apply logic to the hunt. It fascinated him, the way Will processed it. He hunted by instinct: a thing of blood and reflex. Watching Will _decide_ was still foreign. _Moral calculus_ , Bedelia had called it. And so it was.

“He’ll be hard to get to.”

 “So was the, what did she call him? The ‘Devil of Florida’? But we managed.”

 It had taken the better part of three months, and the road hadn’t been a smooth one. But in the end they’d taken him, that Floridian Devil, head of a human trafficking ring that ran through Miami from Central and South America. All Hannibal had done was share a conversation overheard at the grocery store up the road. Two young daughters taken, sold, found dead. Will took care of the rest.

When they _had_ found him, Will had stuffed a severed hand into the man’s mouth while he dug his heart out with a knife.  That devil had screamed like the bowing of a bass under Will’s touch. _Hide us from the wrath of the Lamb_.

He’d braised the heart in a Bordeaux and served it with parsnips, olives, and dates. Will had asked for a second helping.

His darling, darling lamb.

 He cleared his throat. “Not to mention, of course, that Cuba has its other benefits.”

Their eyes met briefly over the rim of Will’s coffee cup. “No extradition treaty.”

“Precisely. A place we might consider staying, if we find it to our liking. But also …well, we wouldn’t be the only ones to seek refuge in a place beyond the reach of law. Cuba is a haven for many running from misdeeds. I trust we could find an ample supply of meat fit for your consumption as well as mine.”

The world provided an ample supply of meat for him, of course. Everywhere he turned, pastures opened up before him—the rude grazed every space. Just the prior week, Will had caught him asking for the business card of a particularly unpleasant serviceman at the marina: he’d taken it from Hannibal’s pocket and thrown it in the garbage.

Inconvenient, to be sure. But who knew what could change in time. Already, Will’s mind was expanding, connections breaking and reforming, knitting a net that he might one day cast wider and wider.

“I’m going to assume you have the vagaries worked out, then? Passports, entry, money, that sort of thing?”

Hannibal didn’t let the thrill of victory show in his eyes. Will was going to agree. “I do. Cuba has long been a fall back plan of mine. And I believe it’s time to fall back.”

“Retreat?” Will asked, with a look of surprise.

“Retire. I’m ready to set down roots. Cook in a proper kitchen, buy a wardrobe that is more than just wrinkle-resistant. If, of course, you’ll join me…?”

Much to his own chagrin, he registered a slight pang of disquiet in the pit of his stomach as he asked. Rings they might have, but the months they’d spent in Florida had been tense. The incident with the Tier woman had woken something in Will for a time. They hadn’t spoken of it since, but he’d seen it in Will’s gaze.  Or rather, in the way Will’s gaze, suddenly, slipped from his. A doubt, a sorrow, and, at times, fear. But their search for the Floridian Devil had healed it. At first it had kept Will distracted, and then it had reminded him. Reminded him why they had undertaken this journey in the first place.

They had never spoken of the woman, but he knew they would cross paths again. Chiyoh was looking for her discreetly in an attempt to avoid such an encounter. Perhaps Cuba would be a bridge too difficult for her to cross.

“Can we get a dog?” Will asked, arching one brow in that way he knew made Hannibal pliable. _Cunning boy_.

In truth, though he didn’t care much for dogs himself, he was hoping that Will would adopt a stray or ten. It was clear he needed it. “Just one?”

“Two is better, actually. Dogs like a pack: they can keep each other company,” Will replied, half-chuckling.

_That smile_. It made him weak. The whole thing made him weak.

But he loved it nevertheless.

“Two _is_ better,” he sighed, standing to get more coffee. He paused on his way to plant a soft kiss on Will’s scarred, smiling cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, kudosed, and commented. I really hope you all found some enjoyment in this: I know I did! :) 
> 
> I still have about a thousand ideas that sprung up from writing this fic--some small oneshots, some more involved. I had the beginnings of a proposal scene written, but it just didn't flow in the epilogue. I also have a bunny about Will and Hannibal's dogs in Cuba. So perhaps you'll hear from me again soon :)


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